


The Visitor

by gypsymuse



Category: Gone With the Wind - All Media Types, Gone With the Wind - Margaret Mitchell
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Friendship, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Occult, Paranormal, Rituals, Spiritual, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel, general weirdness, magick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2020-06-27 05:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19784650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gypsymuse/pseuds/gypsymuse
Summary: When the curator of the haunted Butler Mansion State Museum goes looking for the source of her ghostly disturbances, she finds a lot more than she bargained on. (This is a revamped version of a very old WIP, with enhanced and updated content.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> All due apologies to Margaret Mitchell, may she rest in peace and not haunt me. I used to work in a historic house museum as gaudy and ostentatious as the Butlers', and this story was born in part from my experiences there. This is a revamped, updated, and (I devoutly hope) eventually completed version, and I hope you all enjoy it.

The Visitor

Prologue

I just knew, before I'd even walked the several hundred yards from my apartment to the Butler Mansion, that it was going to be one of those days.

I've been here long enough now that I know this house's cycles more thoroughly than I know my own body's--the house's are a lot more noticeable, in any case, and more disruptive. And when I speak of the house, I mean just that: the house itself is at issue just as much as whatever entities or spirits it might contain. The very structure is permeated with something; I don't know what to call it or even precisely how to describe it, but it's as tangible to me (and to some others) as the physical structure is. Evan says it's a "moody" house and speaks of it as being a living thing in its own right, and I agree. Some days the house absorbs and succors; other days you feel as if it might consume you, or worse.

It's always worse this time of year--"it" being the activity, the energy flux, the moodiness, the general weirdness. As the year winds down toward winter, as the veil between worlds thins and finally begins to shred, this place becomes an absolute creepshow for the sensitive. If you don't set shields to full before you even step through the door, you risk all manner of psychic special effects, some of which can be very unpleasant. Just last week I had to stabilize a young girl, part of a group of high schoolers who'd come through for one of our candlelight "ghost tours". (Sometimes you get more than just a few good yarns and an Addams Family atmosphere.) The volunteer leading the tour had just taken the group into Mrs. Butler's suite on the second floor when the unfortunate girl simply stopped in the doorway, turned chalk white, and began to scream. She had subsided to sobs by the time I got up there from the basement; when I put my arm around her she was shaking so hard I feared she might go into convulsions. I managed to get her down to the brightly-lit, modernized basement office, and kept her there till her friends came to collect her. And all that I could get out of her was a repeated litany, one which made little sense on the surface but chilled me nonetheless: "She was dying, and he wouldn't come."

I just had a feeling, this morning, that there'd be more fun and games of that sort, and I wasn't disappointed. When I was maybe five feet from the door leading in through the basement servant's hallway, said door began to vibrate madly from the force of a sudden fusillade of heavy pounding from within. I don't suppose I need to tell you that no one else was on site yet and that the motion-detectors were still armed and not reacting?

It subsided within a few seconds. It always does. But I still waited until Evan arrived before I unlocked the door and stepped inside.

There was an email waiting for me from Dr. Palmer at the Bidney Institute, with some preliminary findings from their investigation here earlier in the month. Their collected data seems to indicate that we have a genuine haunting on our hands. Oh no, it can't be!

I sound like I'm making fun, but I'm really not. Dr. Palmer and his team were entirely professional and a real pleasure to work with, unlike some of the "ghost hunters" we've had prowling around here in the past. Understand that I have nothing against goths, or dark wyccans, or Satanists, or vampyres, or any other alternative lifestyles; but I have quite a lot against said alties coming into my museum and proceeding to put on a great show of being Overcome by the Powerful Dark Forces in residence. The quickest way to get tossed out of here on your ass is to fake a possession in the middle of a tour. Think I'm joking? I wish I was joking.

The problem is, we're on the circuit now. We've been on TV (part of a Travel Channel haunted-house special), we're all over the internet, we've been featured in several books, and the word of mouth has spread. Now, along with the Winchester Mystery House and the Miami Biltmore, the Queen Mary, Salem Massachusetts and St. Augustine Florida, we are an official destination for the paranormal traveler. This is, to put it mildly, a mixed blessing. I've met a lot of interesting people; I've made friends I hope to keep for life. But I've also met beaucoup idiots, liars, frauds, fakes, and phonies, enough to last a lifetime and beyond.

But the Bidney Institute folks were great to have around. They did their investigation during the last full moon, and it was...interesting. And I had the strangest dream.

I've been here long enough to know that this house likes to fuck with people. It will do things to your mind. Ordinarily I have sense enough to shield myself, but on occasion I'll go in unguarded just to see what will happen. Quite often, nothing does; but once in a while, I get the special effects, too. And this is something that I did NOT tell the Bidney people, though I'm wondering if perhaps I should.

We were up very late that night; Dr. Palmer and his wife were set up in the basement office, while their two grad student assistants were on the top floor of the tower. They had recording equipment and temperature gauges and motion detectors and god-knows-what-all set up all over the place, and they were all settled in for the night, monitoring. Evan and I couldn't stay up all night, since we did have to work just like normal the next morning, so we decided we'd camp out in the house. We've both slept in here before; no big deal. I settled in to the big bed in Mrs. Butler's suite, and he took Captain Butler's room. (The two suites are connected by a large sitting room, dominated by a larger-than-life size portrait of Mrs. B.) Now, what got into us I do NOT know, but we reached the mutual decision that we would lower our shields for the night and sleep unguarded, in the damn haunted house, on the night of the full moon, with the parapsychologists running all over the place goading the spooks out of their hiding places.

The phrase "asking for it" comes to mind.

It was one of those dreams where you're simultaneously watching and participating, if you've ever had one. I am somewhat adept at lucid dreaming and can usually take control of a dreamscape and bend it to my will, but not that night; it was like watching a movie play out, except that even as I watched the scene I also lived it.

It began in the formal dining room on the main floor. The room was dark, lit only by a small candelabra on the long shining table. A scene was playing out between the Butlers-an angry, darkly violent scene. The room was thick with tension, with barely-suppressed rage, with a desperate sadness and a choking desire. I've never felt anything like it before and honestly hope I never do again. I felt these things along with Mrs. B--Scarlett, I should call her by her name--the fear as her husband, Rhett, pushed her up against the wall, thrust her into a chair, flexed strong hands before her face and threatened to crush her skull. The anger at being bullied and brutalized. Her contempt for him, and her confusion, and something else--something even darker that took control as she fled the room and he came after and jerked her into a vicious embrace. What took over then was need, a lust so simple and primal and, well, alien to my nature that I knew that I wasn't dreaming at all but in some way reliving an event from the house's past. For every time I had wished the walls could speak I was being paid in full.

What followed was indescribably pornographic. It wasn't romantic at all; it was intense and brutal and raw and rough. It was like nothing I've ever experienced (or ever imagined wanting to experience), but even as the me part was trying to separate from it, the Scarlett part was reveling in it. Giving as good as she got and then some. And when she came she took me along with her, and it was as if I had gone molten with it, imploded, and then I was awake in a dark and empty room, my body still throbbing with the aftershock of another woman's painful pleasure.

And the next morning, when I staggered sleep-deprived into the basement office and met my equally hollow-eyed assistant, he averted his gaze from mine and muttered something about having a "weird dream." I doubt I need to tell you what we found when we were able to bring ourselves to compare notes.


	2. Chapter 2

I don’t know what got into me, I swear I don’t (although if I’m honest I have to admit that dream thing shook me). Even as I was setting up the room for the ritual, arranging things just so, my brain was keeping up a little heckling monologue the whole time: _“This could get you fired, you know. I doubt the Georgia State Tourism Department approves of Witchcraft on-site. You’re certifiable now, you know that, right?”_

I knew all those things, and I didn’t give a damn. Things had exceeded their breaking point and my need to know had become an all-consuming thing. Hence my desperate plan, hatched over time as I sat frozen at my desk one too many evenings, unable to work for the distraction of the noises coming from all over the dark bulk of the great museum that surrounded me. What was the point of holding the curatorship if one couldn’t do a little research when necessary, right? So that’s precisely what I intended to do: research. Of a sort of paranormal persuasion, yeah, but research nonetheless.

In the five years I’d managed the site, the “incidents” had been escalating. The rending cry followed by the _thump-thump-thud_ in the area of the grand staircase was the most disturbing, but mercifully infrequent; it seemed to be an anniversary thing, since we only experienced it once a year around the same time. Crashes and shouts were commonplace, little snippets of sound like you’d spun the tuning knob on an old-style radio too fast and just caught a word or noise as you passed a station by. And there were certain rooms that felt wrong somehow, like the very air itself was poisoned; the bedrooms on the second floor were the worst, the two main suites positively bristling with anger and sorrow -- or at least, they were to sensitive individuals. Some people had even reported actual apparitions, though I’ve never seen one myself -- mercifully, I might add, since I think if I did see some wailing bloody spectre cruising down the hall I’d probably run out screaming.

Knowing that about myself -- that is, my reluctance to come face-to-face with anything visibly spooky -- makes it even more bizarre that I’d choose to do what I was doing that night, but all I can say is it was different. Setting out to conjure up a spirit under controlled conditions is a far cry from just running into one out bouncing around on its own. It was probably amazingly stupid of me to set out to conduct the experiment alone, but there frankly wasn’t anyone else I dared share this project with. For one thing, if something went wrong and the Tourism Department decided to can me, I didn’t want to drag any of my staff along; and for another, well, I wanted this one all to myself. I can’t help it; I’m very possessive of the museum. Its care has been entrusted to me, poor old abused and mistreated house that was never a real home for its unfortunate inhabitants. I care for it the way you might care for an abandoned hurt animal you’d found -- warily and respectfully, wanting only to love it but knowing it might bite. 

What I was about to do might bite, too, and badly, but I felt sufficient confidence in my abilities to call up and control whatever might be there. And could there have ever been a more ideal time for such a rite? Halloween night, the night the ancient Celts believed to be the time when the veil separating this world and the next grew thinnest. I would take them at their word and attempt by will to tear that veil a bit wider and bring someone through, someone who could give me the answers I sought. I’d chosen the small central tower room that crowned the top of the mansion; the octagonal shape was perfect and the tall windows let the night and the moon stream in to guide me. I already knew the house’s magnetic alignment to be near-perfect, so I was able to place my altar and the four directional candles without benefit of a compass. Bell, book and candle; wand, sword and chalice; all the traditional tools of the magician, the witch, I placed neatly upon the altar, leaving room for the most important tool of the evening: The Ouija board.

Oh, stop laughing. What else would you use to talk to a dead person, email?

Getting the rest of the staff the Hell out of the house by midnight had been no mean feat. Every year in September and October we offer various activities like storytelling and a small haunted attraction and candlelight tours to capitalize on the mansion’s ghostly reputation; they’re big money-makers for us, and help fund upkeep and restoration costs over and above what State monies provide for. Every Friday and Saturday night, and of course on Halloween itself. The last tour ran at ten; I personally conducted it, and I was locking the doors behind the last person out at 11:40 p.m., hoping none of them felt like I’d rushed them through. I’d already stowed my necessary gear up in the tower room and locked it tight, so all that remained was for me to race out to my quarters in the carriage house (on-site accommodations definitely have their advantages), perform the necessary ablutions, dress myself in appropriate ceremonial attire and race back to the house. I don’t mind telling you that despite what I was about to do it was with no small amount of -- well, fear, that I reentered the darkened house alone and made my way up the stairs to my tower room with only the light of a lantern to guide me. No ghosts molested me as I passed and I resisted the impulse to turn on the lights as I went. Electric lights disturb the spirits’ vibrations. At least, so certain books had assured me, and how would I know differently?

Everything was in its proper place, just as I’d left it. I stashed a wine bottle and a packet of shortbreads beneath the altar table (checking to make sure I’d brought in the ritual corkscrew), made sure I had my lighter and plenty of incense, then seated myself cross-legged behind the altar and took a moment to center myself and calm my racing thoughts. The house was still as the grave; it was almost as if it was holding its breath. I had to remind myself to breathe slowly and evenly, my excitement was so great. This house -- its history, its inhabitants, its secrets -- had been my passion and my obsession since I’d first stumbled up the front steps to volunteer as a tour guide over a decade before. I felt myself now on the verge of a great discovery, something that would change everything. The combination of exhilaration and terror was almost too much to contain.

Carefully I unbraided my long dark hair and let it fall, placing a silver crescent moon circlet on my head. Lighting a spare taper I went round to the four quarters of the compass in turn, starting and ending in the east -- symbolic of the rising of the sun, the place where light is kindled anew each day. That accomplished, I stood before my makeshift altar and made a declaration of my intent, then took up my sword and went round again, this time scribing a protective circle around myself and my implements. If there were any evil beasties lurking about, it wouldn’t do to have them coming in and disrupting the party. I completed the rest of the necessary actions in silence, holding firm to the visualization of my purpose, until at last I was ready to seat myself and begin the séance in earnest.

Séance! God, the very word conjures up images of teenagers giggling in a darkened room after an evening binge-watching old episodes of _Buffy_ and _Charmed_. To be perfectly honest, even I was skeptical of the efficaciousness of what I was doing; what sane person wouldn’t be, just a little? Here in the rational 21st century, one just doesn’t go around conjuring up spirits and stuff; that’s fantasyland, TV and movies, not real life. For most people, anyway. My years around the museum had taught me much about suspension of disbelief, and learning to accept the proof of your own senses even when it goes against all the “rationality” you’ve been taught all your life. Some things really aren’t rational. 

Outside, the wind was rising in entirely appropriate Halloweeny fashion. I looked up and out the window directly in front of me (imagining I could see a faint blue glow around the perimeter of my drawn circle) and saw a raft of tattered clouds scudding across the bright pumpkin face of the moon. I couldn’t have ordered a better atmosphere. Heaping more incense on the brazier, I placed the planchette atop my talking board -- not a trademarked cardboard “Ouija” from a hobby store, but a carved and stained board of oak, purpose-built and heavy as an anvil -- and rested my fingertips lightly thereon, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply of the scented smoke. I let my mind drift, casting it out across the worlds, across the planes of knowledge and existence, beyond time, beyond limitation. There was a subtle shift as I felt my consciousness flow into the waking-dreaming state my training had taught me was the proper state for walking between worlds. Words formed on my lips and I spoke them, an incantation stitching itself together without any help from my conscious mind, the words gaining in strength even as the winds without gained in strength and the very wood of the tower room began to creak and groan in protest. The windows rattled in their frames, banged their sashes. I chanted on, eyes sealed shut, hands stilled on the planchette, feeling a great swirling and rising around me, within me, my heart thundering, my mind awhirl with anticipation and dread, unable to stop, able only to bring whatever I’d begun to completion. Not looking, not needing to look, I cast another handful of incense onto the coals then lifted both arms into the air, a gesture of welcome, of invocation. In my mind’s ear I could hear my own voice, calling out the invitation, could see the vast mist-shrouded sweep of the astral plane I walked, and could see at last a figure, dim at first, coming closer, approaching --

\-- the swirling mists enveloped me, enveloped the figure, the wind rising howling and the clouds of incense smoke suddenly chokingly thick --

\-- a series of _bang-bang-bangs!_ as every window flew open at once and the wind swept in, bringing cool air and the sepulchral scent of dead leaves. A scrambling, something bumped the edge of the altar and nearly toppled it over onto me. I caught it, righted it, eyes flying open, surveying the room, a last thought _The Department is gonna kill me for this one_ and then I realized I was no longer alone in the room, that a pair of wild green eyes were staring at me over the top of the altar and my scheme had succeeded far beyond my wildest dreams.

The woman sat up, gripping the edge of the table for support, and stared malevolently at me. “Who are you?” she demanded, voice low and furious. I could feel my madwoman’s smile as I sought for a response.

“I could ask you the same thing,” I said at last, “but I think I already know.” Looking her dead in the eye, I inhaled and said, simply, “It’s nice to meet you at last, Mrs. Butler.”


	3. Chapter 3

Even with the physical evidence sitting not three feet away from me, still I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I’d hoped to at best receive a few cryptic words through the medium of my board -- and had somehow managed to bring an entire person bodily through the aethers and into the circle with me. Damn it, that just wasn’t done, and I was entirely unprepared as to how I should proceed. Was she spirit or substance? Hard to say. She looked as solid and real as I. Was she dead or alive? Under ordinary circumstances, a woman born in 1845 would, in the 21st century, undeniably be worm food -- but she looked not only alive but pissed as Hell. Were we stuck here, in this room, this circle, this time-out-of-time and place-not-a-place? If only I had a guide, a book perhaps, some sort of manual of afterlife protocols... I went so far as to grab my Book of Shadows off the table and flip through it, even though I already knew what I would, and would not, find inside. My guest, meanwhile, was now looking around the room, still clinging to the altar’s edge but sitting up straighter now. While she was momentarily preoccupied I took the time to study her.

It was her, all right, there could be no mistaking her. Didn’t I live with her face and form in a hundred photographs and portraits every day of my life? I knew her face as well as I knew my own. Hair the color of night, true Black Irish raven hair that I knew would have a bit of a bluish cast to it in the right light. A pale oval of a face wide at the jaw and pointed at the chin, the nose a bit strong, the brows thick and dark and slightly slanted. The eyes, in person, were knockouts; an odd exotic almond in shape and, yes, true green in color, not a bit of hazel, not a hint of blue or brown. She was pale and fine-boned and on the thin side; there were faint purplish crescents under the eyes that suggested she’d not slept well of late. Her dress was, well, as overblown and outlandish as the surviving garments in our collection would indicate was her normal taste; this appeared to be a wrapper of some kind, a florid paisley silk thing with a full ermine collar and what would likely be a lengthy dangerous train when she stood. Beneath it appeared to be a chemise or nightgown, and I had to wonder if she’d been getting ready for bed when I’d surprised her with my Summons From The Beyond. She wore no jewelry that I could see beyond an immense diamond and emerald ring of indescribable gaudiness. I felt myself shudder at the sight of it; I knew, from family papers, that that ring had gone to the grave with her.

The hand without the ring reached out and took hold of the planchette. I reached out and snatched it back, giving her a severe look as I replaced it. The eyes narrowed to slits, and I found myself thinking those eyes wouldn’t have looked out of place over the barrel of a smoking gun. “What are you?” She demanded. “A Spirit Medium? Some kind of witch?”

“Er, well, yes, actually, the latter,” I stammered, feeling as stupid as I knew I sounded. She laughed.

“Ha. Do you take me for a fool? There’s no such thing as witches!”

“If you don’t believe in them, then why’d you ask me if I was one?” I countered, leaning my elbows on the edge of the altar and staring back at her. I was starting to wonder how helpful she was going to be. She seemed less than forthcoming.

“If you’re a witch, then do something. Cast a spell. Go on!”

“I already did,” I pointed out, “and you don’t seem too thrilled with the results.”

She was getting to her feet now, very nearly dragging the ridiculously long sleeves of her gown through my candles. I flicked one sleeve out of a flame’s path, causing her to twitch the arm away as though annoyed by a fly. “I must be dreaming,” she said, more to herself than to me. “Maybe I’m sleepwalking. What happened to the windows?”

“They blew open when you, um, arrived,” I told her. “Do you remember coming here, Mrs. Butler?”

“No. The last thing I remember... oh.” She stopped abruptly, and she went even paler. “My husband had just come home. We -- quarreled. He said something awful to me and I... I can’t remember what happened next. Everything was grey and foggy like a nightmare, and then I was sitting here with you.” Her voice had taken on a slightly frightened edge. “What’s happening? What have you done?”

I tried to keep my voice even, though inside I was afire with excitement. “Where were you? When you quarreled? Where in the house?”

“On the stairs. I was waiting for him, sitting on the stairs. Why?”

Oh, I knew why, but I couldn’t tell her -- not yet, not now. I knew, of course, that she had fallen down that very staircase sometime in the summer of 1871, miscarried her last child and very nearly died herself. Had I somehow managed to slip through a crack and reach her as she lay in that twilight state between life and death? Was that how I’d managed to bring her through to me? My brain actually hurt. What the Hell had I done?

“Just curious,” I said mildly. “We’ll talk about that later. Mrs. Butler, do you believe in, um, extreme possibilities?”

“I believe I’d like to know who you are, and why you’re in my house, and in that absurd getup.” She stopped pacing and swung around to face me. “You seem to know my name, and I’d appreciate knowing yours.”

“Constance. Constance Vinson.” Without thinking I offered my hand, and she took it without hesitation. Our hands linked across the altar; her palm was cool, her grip firm, and I imagined I could feel her pulse. “My friends call me Cory,” I added, lamely. She nodded.

“How do you know me?”

“I’m the curator -- um, the manager of the museum here.”

“What museum?”

I coughed. “The Butler Mansion State Historic Site,” I blurted. I barely managed to catch her before she sagged to the ground in a dead, you should pardon the pun, faint.

For a moment, I thought seriously about joining her.

But I kept my wits about me, carefully lowering her back to the floor. I was amazed by how small and fragile she seemed; her haughty portrait upstairs made her seem much larger than life, and the “eyewitness accounts” in our files had given her legendary status in my mind. Strange to see that she was in fact smaller than me, and I have to shop in the petite section myself. I grasped one slim wrist, felt for and found a reassuring steady pulse, and tried to think what to do next. I’d never seen anybody faint before. What do you do to wake them up? Pour cold water on them? I had none. Slap them? That seemed kind of rude, on top of everything else. Then I remembered the wine and cake, still waiting patiently under the altar. If I could maybe shake her awake, perhaps some food and drink would revive her. 

I fumbled the bottle open, only dropping a few crumbs of cork inside, and poured out a bit into the goblet. I gave myself a fortifying swig then poured out another glass for her. I’d brought in the libations out of habit -- an offering to the Powers That Be, in celebration of a successful rite or consolation for a lousy one -- but tonight was glad for the habit. I moved around behind my guest, shook her shoulders gently until she stirred, then helped her to sit and offered her the goblet, supporting her as she drank. God/dess only knew what her “trip” had cost her. I was lucky she wasn’t crashing around raving like a maniac.

“Something has happened,” she said at last, holding up the goblet for a refill. I provided, then helped myself straight from the bottle. “This isn’t one of Rhett’s nasty jokes, is it?”

“No, I’m afraid not. You’re -- you’re in a different place now. I don’t quite know how to explain it; I don’t really understand what’s happened myself. I’ve never done this before, you see. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

The wine -- and the cake she was now tearing into -- seemed to strengthen her; some color had bloomed in her cheeks and she was less nervous in manner. “So what did you think would happen? What were you trying to do with all this?”

“Contact a spirit, or whatever it is that’s causing the disturbances here in the museum -- er, that is, the house. Your house. Whatever.”

“When did my house become a museum?”

Now this was familiar ground for me. “1973. It was privately owned and operated before the state recognized it's importance and took it over in 1981. We’re now a state historic site operated by the Tourism Department. I’m speaking Greek to you, aren’t I?”

For Mrs. Butler was looking at me as if I’d grown an extra head. “1973? 1981? What year do you think it is?”

I told her.

She choked, then laughed. “That’s ridiculous! I -- how could I be sitting here with you, in my house, in -- it was June 21st, 1871 when I woke up this morning!”

“Midsummer night,” I murmured. I’d wondered the exact date of her fall, since it was mentioned nowhere in our records; now I knew. Midsummer night. Another excellent time for walking between worlds. “It’s October 31st -- or more accurately it’s November 1st, since it’s past midnight.” I held the wine bottle out so she could read the label, keeping a firm grip on it. I’d be needing more this night. “See? Look at the vintage. And look at this --” I took up the plastic disposable lighter I’d used on the candles. “Nothing like this in 1871. It’s true, what I’m telling you is true. I don’t believe it either, but it is. Somehow I managed to bring you here, from your world into mine.” I pressed my hand hard against my forehead, which was beginning to throb unpleasantly. “This happens all the time in books and movies and stuff, but it doesn’t ever really happen. Except it did. I sound like I’m nuts, don’t I? I look like I’m nuts, don’t I?”

“You look and sound like you’re mad, but I don’t think you are. Something very strange is happening, but maybe it’s happening to both of us. We’re in the cupola, aren’t we?” She got up again and started purposefully for a window; I grabbed the -- yes, there it was! -- the long train of her dressing gown and reeled her back in.

“Don’t break the circle!” I hissed.

“The what?”

“The circle. We are in a protective space. How do you think I managed to bring you here?” I swept my arm around to indicate the invisible sphere I’d scribed. “I don’t know if it’s safe to leave it.”

“Well, we can’t just sit up here like this forever. We have to figure out what’s happened and how to fix it. So you can just pick up your knives and sticks and things and let’s get out of here!”

Aha. I’d gleaned from some of the correspondence that Mrs. B was well known for bossiness. There it was. It made me bristle like a cranky cat. “Excuse me, but I’m running this circle and, frankly, I’m running this museum as well.”

“And I’m running this house -- seeing as it’s mine!” She shot back, hands on hips. I shook my head, exasperated.

“Dammit, listen to me!”

“Don’t swear at me in my own house!”

“It’s not your house anymore! In my time it’s the State of Georgia’s house! And it’s MY responsibility, and now that you’re here from wherever you were, you’re my responsibility too, and I have to figure out what the Hell I’m going to do with you! Damned right I’m gonna swear.”

“If my house is really changed as you say it is, then I want to see it,” she declared. To be honest, I really wanted to show it to her. There were all kinds of unanswered questions that we had, about the usage of various rooms in the house’s heyday, what certain wall coverings had looked like, the window treatments, the floors, the furnishings. She could tell me. A first-hand account of the Mansion as it was -- oh, this was better than a thousand letters and diaries and fading old daguerreotypes! If only I could get us safely out of the circle.

I wasn’t at all sure that I could. For all I knew, the circle was the only thing keeping her here; if I broke it or took it down, would she fade away, crumble to powder, spiral back to her own place? Who knew? This was the crap no one ever talked about, and probably for good reason. It must never happen. Except for when it does, but the people it happens to go crazy and get shut away, and you never hear about it.

Damn.

Well, there was only one way to find out. “Sit down,” I commanded, and when she still stood gaping at me I put a hand on her shoulder and pushed firmly. She sat. Taking up the sword I strode back to the eastern candle, pointed the sword to the floor and circumambulated the room in reverse, taking up the circle I’d earlier put down with such careful intent. I closed up everything, put out the candles, rang down the rite in the time-honored manner. I walked over to the door and flipped the switch beside it, and the room was suddenly awash in the stark dim light of a 75-watt bulb.

She was still there. And she was staring now at the light bulb, so intently I was sure she’d cook her retinas if she didn’t look away. “Mrs. Butler,” I said, then repeated it more loudly when she didn’t respond. “Mrs. Butler! Let’s go.”

But she’d already gone -- over to the window that looked out over the front of the property, giving a view not only of the Mansion’s grounds but of the wide busy street beyond it. Her hands were gripping the sides of the window frame, knuckles white, and the way she was leaning out into the night made my heart catch in my throat. “What...?” was all she could manage, indicating with a tilt of her head the world beyond.

“That’s Peachtree Street,” I said softly. “And Cain to your right; the names are still the same. Peachtree is one of the main thoroughfares through Atlanta now. And Atlanta’s the biggest city in the south.”

“How big?”

“Several million people just in the city proper; more if you count the suburbs.”

“Suburbs?”

“The outlying areas, smaller towns and communities outside the city but still in the metropolitan area. Conyers and Lovejoy and Jonesboro and all the surrounding counties and stuff.”

“Jonesboro!” She seized upon that. “My -- Tara was near there. Is it still there? Does Tara still exist?”

“Sure,” I said, baffled. “It’s still there. It’s a museum, too, but it hasn’t been for as long as this house. It was still being occupied by your descendants until maybe thirty or forty years ago.”

“My descendants?”

“Well, your son’s.”

“Wade,” she said softly. “I left Tara to him?”

“Yeah.” I really didn’t want to get into things like wills and bequeathings and death-related topics. “It’s fine, it looks great. It’s a state site too. There’ve been some problems, some vandalism, race-related stuff, but it’s doing well now. It’s OK.”

“'OK'?”

“Um, fine. It’s good. ‘OK’ is an expression meaning ‘good’.”

“Oh. What are all those things?”

I followed her gaze. “Cars. Horseless carriages. They’re powered by, um, internal combustion engines, which you don’t know about because they don’t exist yet. GOD this is weird.”

“Can I see them?” She turned back to me now, and her initial shock and fear had been replaced by a growing curiosity. How on earth could I resist?

“Yeah, you can, if you promise to answer a few questions for me. There’s some things I’d really like to know.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want, if you take that silly thing off your head and put some decent clothes on.” She was almost cheerful now, and I was beginning to see a hint of what it was about her that must have so beguiled so many. I removed my headgear and placed it on the table; I’d think about all that tomorrow. 

“I think your idea of decent and my idea of decent might be two different things,” I warned, with a grin. “But no matter. Would you like a tour of the Mansion, Mrs. Butler?”


	4. Chapter 4

I took her straight down the back stairs (“The servant’s stairs!”) and out of the house, keeping a grip on her arm the whole way. She was twisting and straining and craning all around and only the fact that I’d left the lights off saved me. First stop was my quarters and a change into more suitable clothing -- for both of us if possible, since her pretty trailing garment was a guaranteed recipe for disaster. I could just see artifacts flying in all directions courtesy of skirt tails and sleeves and me trying to concoct reasonable explanations for the damage report paperwork. No way, uh-uh, no thanks. The night was cool and surprisingly quiet, dew already forming thickly on the carpet of grass my garden volunteers so lovingly tended. When we reached the carriage house, she stalled like a balky mule.

“Why are we going in there?”

“That’s where I live,” I informed her, heading up the iron stairs to the second floor entrance. When she remained groundbound, I leaned over the railing and inquired irritably, “Are you coming or not?”

“I can’t believe you live in the carriage house. My driver and the groom live up here!”

“Yeah, well, the State supplies my housing and I wasn’t given the option of taking the master suite in the big house, so it’ll have to do.” I opened the door, reached around it to flip on the light switch, then pushed inside. “I daresay it’s a bit more luxurious now than what you provided for your servants,” I added, just to be snarky.

The curator’s apartments cover the entire top floor of the carriage house, nearly two thousand square feet of space -- much more than I could’ve afforded on my own had I set out to rent an apartment in a part of Atlanta where I wouldn’t be shot or stabbed or raped the moment I stepped foot outside. By the time the State took over the site the old servants’ quarters were long gone from the carriage house, which had suffered a fire in the early 1970s. The second floor was completely remodeled in the late 80s, and they’d gone to some pains to match the materials and their styles to those used in the servants’ section of the big house; that is, far nicer materials and styles than anything in use in contemporary housing, except that being built for rich folks. As a result, I had an enormous living/sitting room, a kitchen big enough to dance in, a bedroom, an office, and a storage room. They’d even installed closets. I’d requested and received permission to take up the old carpeting and now had nice wood floors -- soft pine, rather than the glorious oaks and walnuts and cherries in the mansion, but wood nonetheless and preferable to low-pile shag. It suited me. It was home.

The barrage of questions began as soon as her feet crossed the threshold. Patiently I gave brief descriptions of the items she indicated; this was nothing new to me, of course, since I did it on every tour of the house, but explaining modern normal things was a twist. Television set, DVR, stereo. Computer. Tablet. Laptop. Microwave, refrigerator, oven, can opener. She was almost childlike, tentatively poking a finger at this, lifting that, turning things around and examining them. While she rattled around, I went to the fridge and pulled out two plastic bottles of Coke. Uncapping them, I handed one to her.

“What’s this?”

“Atlanta’s official beverage. You’ll have to wait another ten years or so for it -- and I don’t recommend you drink any at first, either, unless you want to get high.”

“What is ‘high’?” She asked, sipping cautiously at the Coke. The fizz of it made her wrinkle her nose up.

“’High’ is when you’re drugged. You know, like if you drink too much, or you have a dose of laudanum. Coca-Cola was originally made with the extract of the coca plant; it’s where cocaine comes from. It doesn’t have that now.”

“I feel like I’m ‘high’ already,” she confessed. “Like I’m in a dream and can’t wake myself up. But I don’t know why I’d dream you, or all these things.”

“The feeling’s mutual, although I’ve dreamed of you before.”

“Was I like I am?”

“Not at all.” I couldn’t help but grin at her, and was rewarded when she grinned back. She was, I knew, a good five or more years younger than me; and despite the unfathomable hardships she’d already endured, things I’d never known and never could know, still she seemed to me very young indeed in some ways, unsophisticated and, for all her brashness, rather sweet. “Stay put while I go change. I don’t suppose I could persuade you into something less, um, conspicuous, could I?”

She looked at her wrapper, confused. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing? It cost the earth and this is real ermine, you know.”

I sighed. “I’m sure it is. Just wait for me then.” I hustled off to the bedroom and dressed in some haste, wary of leaving her alone for too long. Like a new puppy, I had no idea what she might get into and inadvertently destroy. Quickly I raked a brush through my hair and secured it with an elastic band, then returned to the kitchen. She was still parked at the table where I’d left her, sipping her Coke thoughtfully and glancing idly at a book on historic architecture.

“Your house is a mix of Gothic Revival and Italianate with some Second Empire features, if you want to know,” I informed her. “The massing is, ah, creative, and really your roofline is the only thing Second Empire about it. The whole thing is kind of an architectural anomaly, you want to know the truth.”

“Rhett says it’s a nightmare,” she giggled, “But he’s the one who hired the architects that designed it. I really wanted a chalet--”

“A what?”

She spelled it. “Shal-ay,” I corrected. “It’s French.”

“Oh. Well, I wanted a house with lots of lovely gingerbread and cupolas and towers, but Rhett wanted some boring old-fashioned Charlestony thing, so this is what we ended up with.” She paused. “Do you like it?”

“Mrs. Butler, I love your house. I’ve been around it for more than fifteen years now. I’ve cleaned it, decorated it, redecorated it, painted and polished and scrubbed and swept, I’ve shown it to people and thrown people out of it and probably spent more time here than I’ve spent anywhere since I moved out of my parents’ house. I’ve known this house longer than you have at this point.”

“You’re right. We’ve only lived here two years -- and if Rhett had his way about it we’d probably still be living in the hotel. Well, if somebody else has to end up with my house I’m glad there’s someone who appreciates it.” She continued to flip pages in the book until she came to one that showed a bristling Gothic horror studded with impossible turrets and towers and dripping with wooden lace. “There! That’s what I wanted, but Rhett said absolutely not.”

“I don’t blame him,” I quipped. She looked up at me now for the first time, and I saw her brows draw together in disapproval. “What?”

“Does everybody in your time dress like that?” she blurted, censure in every word. Tact, thy name ain’t Scarlett Butler. I could feel myself blushing.

“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?” I demanded. It was how I dressed most of the time in my off hours: Levis, t-shirt, clogs. She had, of course, been quite the clotheshorse in her day, and perhaps had I lived in her time I might’ve been too; but modern fashion being what it was, I stuck to the basics and liked it. Was she ever about to get an education!

“I wouldn’t have let one of our darkies dress like that,” was her response. I cringed.

“God. You can’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“’Darkie’. You can’t say stuff like that. If I take you out you’ll get us both killed.”

She laughed again, though with little amusement. “Your world must be very strange.”

“Stranger than you know. This is how people dress today. Everybody wears jeans, men and women both. Women wear trousers all the time if they want to. It’s very comfortable and convenient.”

“I’ve never worn trousers,” she said. “Pantalets don’t count. I’ve seen ladies in reform costume with the bloomers, but they looked so silly. Perhaps I could try a pair -- Rhett would be horrified! – but do you have a skirt I could wear?”

Thank the Gods. Maybe I could get her into something normal after all. Since I had no idea how long she’d be with me, I was going to have to camouflage her as best I could. Letting her wear her own clothes from the museum’s collection was right out of the question, of course, but she was close enough in size to me that my things wouldn’t completely swallow her up. She followed me back to my bedroom and I dug out a soft cotton broomstick skirt and a plain green t-shirt, which I handed over to her. If she was going to stay any length of time I’d have to take her shopping, for underwear if nothing else, since she had none of her own to suit. Modestly she turned her back to me and I did the same, allowing her a bit of privacy. After some scuffling and struggling I heard a “Well, how do I look?” and I turned back to see an almost modern-looking woman standing before me. A bra was going to be a necessity, I could see immediately.

“I feel quite fast in this,” she confessed. “Everything’s so flimsy.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she asked, “What do you wear under these things?”

“Underpants, and bras. You don’t know about those, they won’t come along until the 1920s or so.”

“No one wears stays?”

“Only when I’m in costume here.” I returned to my dresser and took out a bra, which I handed to her. “This isn’t going to fit you perfectly, but it’ll help a little. Fasten the band around your ribcage and put your arms through the straps.” I turned away again and waited while she squirmed into it. The result was more discreet, and she seemed more at ease with everything under control. “Your feet are smaller than mine, but these should probably stay on you.” I handed over a pair of slip-on flats, which she stuffed her feet into without protest. Giving her the once-over, I pronounced her presentable.

Presentable, yes, but somehow oddly diminished. I noted and lamented, and not for the first time, the regrettable knack our modern clothing has of making even the loveliest among us seem frumpy and dumpy. Mrs. Butler was not a beautiful woman, by the standards of her time or mine; her features were too strong, her expression too challenging. But in her own clothing, such as the blue velvet gown she’d worn for the portrait upstairs in the mansion, she had attained a sort of magnificence, a grandeur and poise that, standing in my bedroom in my leisure clothes, she sorely lacked. On the other hand, it did much to humanize her to me. This was no longer a legendary historical figure whose life I interpreted through the lens of my own biases; she was flesh and blood before me, all five-foot-nothing of her, a woman in her young twenties with nothing but tragedy behind and before. I felt absurdly protective of her. I felt like her mother. Seeing her there almost made me want to cry.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked testily. “Has my face gone green or something? You’re just staring at me.”

“Sorry,” I said, shaking myself out of it. “Do you want to go see the house now? It’s awfully late -- ” And it was, it was past one-thirty in the morning. She nodded emphatically, and I acquiesced. For some reason I wasn’t at all sleepy.


	5. Chapter 5

As curator of an old house museum, and one notorious for its alleged haunts, I receive reports all the time and from all kinds of people. One of the most common things I hear is that lights go on and off in the house at inappropriate hours of the night, when no one is inside. I know no one’s inside, because I secure the house myself every evening, go through every room with another staffer before arming the security system and locking it all up tight. The lights stay off when I’m up late; I’ve gone outside after dark many times and walked the grounds, and never once seen a light in the house that I hadn’t left on myself. Visitors frequently report otherwise, though, and I expected I’d hear more such reports tomorrow. Tomorrow, however, I’d have an explanation -- this late-night tour – even if I couldn’t tell anyone else. Happy freaking Halloween!

This time I took her around to the front and in through the main entrance, as befit the lady of the house. She lingered over the front door for a moment, running her hand over the leaded glass panels (all originals intact) and the immense age-darkened bronze handle. I opened it for her and stepped ahead into the entry, and she came in behind me looking around as if she’d never seen the place before -- which, in a way, she hadn’t, as I knew it had to be much changed from what she’d known. My hand found the rheostat near the door, pushed it in and turned it up, causing the light to bloom and swell forth from the chandeliers (intact original gas fixtures, since electrified). “Welcome home,” I said, although in truth she’d always been here. The big house dwarfed and enveloped and embellished her, and no amount of unsuitable modern clothing could change that. It was her house all right, and all the sorrow and loss and grief she would come to know in it couldn’t alter that essential fact. And in that moment I knew the source of all our disturbances, every light and knock and cry. She’d never left this place. Perhaps she couldn’t.

After our initial, rather abbreviated run-through, she grudgingly pronounced her approval of my stewardship. The house, she said, looked surprisingly good, if a bit worn in spots; and while she hated the thought of “trashy people walking through here gawking at my things” she was gratified to know that in the future she and her people were thought of so highly.

“You’re something of a feminist icon,” I told her as we traversed the second-floor hallway after leaving her suite. “You were a successful businesswoman in a time when women just didn’t do such things. That’s very inspirational.”

“Whatever happened to my store, do you know?”

“That’s something else that your children took over after -- ah, well, later. There’s a chain of Kennedy’s stores all over the south, small department stores -- what you would’ve known as a dry goods store, of course. They’ve floundered a bit in recent years, what with competition from all the megastore chains like Walmart, but they’re still hanging on. You can be proud of that; the foundation you built was a strong one.”

That pleased her. “It wasn’t doing very well at all when I first married Frank. He was a terrible businessman. No head for figures at all and no gumption when it came to getting what was rightfully his. I had to put a stop to him giving out credit left and right and then never collecting on the debts. If I hadn’t taken over running the store we’d have been in the poor house in a year’s time!”

I’d seen some of the old ledgers and records from the early years, back when it was still known as Kennedy’s General Store; they were in the company’s collection at their Atlanta headquarters, and I’d got permission to study and photocopy items for our purposes here. She’d had a real knack for the business, and under her guidance the store had quickly become quite profitable, either in spite of the times or because of them. Whether or not she was honest or fair in all her dealings was debatable; there’d been the occasional jab in the newspapers of the time, but no legal action was ever brought against her. If she’d been born in my time, I thought, she could have had an empire comparable to Martha Stewart’s at her command.

“We don’t know much about your second husband. Or your first, for that matter. I mean, we’ve got materials from the Wilkes family, Mrs. Wilkes’ letters and diaries that tell us some about her brother, but we know almost nothing about Mr. Kennedy except that he was your second husband and father of your second child. There are a couple of pictures and that’s about it. We haven’t been able to locate any descendants who have any mementoes either.”

“Oh, Frank. What’s there to tell? We weren’t married long. He was -- well, if you want to know, he was my sister’s beau for years only he never did get up the nerve to ask her to marry him. He was going to, after the war, but...well, you see, things were bad for us then, after the war. I’d managed to hold onto Tara and keep everyone fed but we were barely surviving. And then the damned carpetbagging Yankee government decided they wanted three hundred dollars in taxes, and there was no place to get that kind of money and I couldn’t lose Tara, I couldn’t. It was all I had left. But Frank had money, he had the store, and if he’d married my sister she wouldn’t have lifted a finger and the rest of us would’ve starved in the street. So I -- I told Frank she was going to marry somebody else. And he married me instead.”

I must have had a strange look on my face, because she became defensive, her cheeks growing pink. “I know you think I’m horrible but what else could I have done? Have you ever been really hungry, Cory? Have you ever been so hungry it made you sick but there was nothing you could do about it? Even if you had food you had to share a single portion among a dozen people and there was never enough. I was feeding sick people and babies and the last of our servants who didn’t run off. I worked our fields myself like a dar -- like a slave and tried to keep the roof over our heads. I did what I had to do. I don’t expect you to understand. No one could.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” I said softly. “I wasn’t judging you. Scarlett -- may I call you that? Mrs. Butler seems so formal -- Scarlett, you’re right, I can’t understand because I wasn’t there. I’ve never known any real hardship; I’ve been incredibly lucky. I’ve read every published account I could get my hands on of what privation people suffered during and after the war, so I have an idea -- but I can’t feel what it was like, I can’t really know. If you married a man you didn’t love just for survival, so what? It’s not that uncommon even today, really. Women do it all the time, and for much pettier reasons than you had. Hell, I mean, it’s not like you killed him or anything, right?”

To my amazement, her blush deepened, and her gaze skittered guiltily away from mine. “Actually...”

“Whoa.” I caught her by the arm, made her face me, made her stand still. “Wait a minute, hold the phone. What do you mean?”

“Well, I didn’t put a gun to his head or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about, but in a way it was my fault that he died when he did.”

“According to our records, he was shot in an altercation at a bar -- a saloon, what was it called?”

“That was a lie. He was killed in a Klan raid on a Shantytown that had grown up outside town near where my lumber mill was. I was -- attacked, one day when I was going out to check on the mill, and some of the gentlemen decided they needed to clean out the woods there. Frank never told me he was in the Klan; I didn’t find out until Rhett brought me the news that he’d been killed.”

Oh, this was better than television. The things history conveniently neglects to record! So husband number two had been of the white-sheeted persuasion and had gotten himself offed for his pains. And her third husband was the one who’d brought her the news of the second one’s demise. I wished I was recording this.

“So you already knew Captain Butler by that time?”

“Of course. I’ve known Rhett since I was sixteen. He wasn’t around all the time, he’s always traveled a lot, but he’d always come back around sooner or later.”

“To see you?”

She seemed to consider that possibility for the first time. “Yes, that, although I’m sure he had other business in Atlanta. He owns – owned -- oh! Rhett has a lot of different interests. They take him many different places.”

“I see,” I said, though I didn’t, exactly. I let her lead me down the hallway and followed her into the nursery. She had avoided entering Captain Butler’s suite, I noticed, and had not seemed especially eager to enter her own; two mysteries, I thought, to address later. Now she surveyed the nursery and informed me that it wasn’t quite right.

“Too neat. This room is always messy. And these are the tackiest old toys I’ve ever seen!”

“None of your children’s playthings survived. It’s hard to find toys of the period in any decent shape; kids tended to be rough on them, and most of them were discarded when they broke. Really good quality antique toys in good shape cost a fortune these days. Wanna know how much that doll is worth?” I indicated a large and elaborately garbed French bébé seated on a small wicker settee. Scarlett smiled faintly. I only had a mild heart seizure when she picked up the toy, which appraised for an obscene amount, and smoothed its human-hair wig.

“Bonnie has a doll similar to this. Rhett brought it back from one of his trips abroad. It’s almost as big as she is.”

Belatedly I remembered that the unfortunate Bonnie Blue Butler was destined not to get much bigger, and that one of the discreet informational plaques affixed to the wall made this plain; the child’s death date, still two years ahead for Scarlett, was clearly visible. Trying to be cool, I shifted position, maneuvering myself between her and the wall plaque, blocking it with my body. Casually leaning up against the wall, I inquired after the little girl.

“She’s barely two and already she’s awfully spoiled. Rhett is very indulgent with her.” From the evident pride in her voice, I suspected that she found it rather hard not to indulge her baby too. “I’m sure you’ve got pictures of her.”

I certainly did. She was a lovely little thing, the resemblance to both her parents very clear and striking. Then the image of one particular photo -- the postmortem one, taken in this very room with the little body lying in state on that very bed -- flashed across my mind’s eye. Lucky for me that was one thing we did NOT display. 

“I didn’t really want to have any more children,” Scarlett went on, not noticing my distraction. “I never wanted any, really, but they just sort of happened.”

“There are ways to prevent them happening,” I pointed out. She looked shocked.

“There are? I mean, besides...well, you know, not, um, well. I know you can fix it after you -- I was going to, when I found out about Bonnie, but Rhett was absolutely furious and threatened to chain me to the wall until she was born if I even thought about it.”

“Abortion is much safer in my time than it was in yours. It’s quite possible you would have suffered permanent injury or died. It was just as dangerous as giving birth, and God knows that wasn’t a picnic. But I’m surprised you don’t know about birth control. Haven’t you ever seen the ads in your newspapers? I know they’re kind of obtuse in their wording, but the meaning’s pretty plain.”

“I don’t read newspapers much. And Rhett never -- ” She broke off, and I could tell from the change of her expression that she was simultaneously horrified at having such an indecent conversation and furious with her husband for never mentioning contraception. I suspected she’d be mentioning it to him, if I ever managed to get her back home.

“I didn’t want any of my first three children,” she went on at last, “but after Bonnie came she was sort of fun. She’s not like Wade or Ella, she’s such a willful, determined little thing! And now there’s another one on the way...” she trailed off, and now I could see -- oh Hell, were those tears forming? I could handle a screaming tantrum better than I could tears. I felt the first twinge of panic. I almost said Cheer up, you’re going to have a miscarriage, but stopped myself in time. Instead I asked her what was wrong.

“It’s nothing. Oh dear, it’s getting very late.” She brushed at her eyes in an elaborate show of sleepiness, but I knew better. “May I sleep in my room here tonight, or are you going to make me sleep out in the carriage house like a horse?”

“You may sleep on my sofa like a proper guest, and tomorrow morning I’ll figure out what to do with you while I’m working. I can’t very well have you running around in here all day. The staff would ask questions.”

I was very grateful indeed to steer her out of that room and away from that damning plaque. There were some things she simply did not need to know. Tomorrow -- yes, tomorrow I would slide through the house during my daily tour and I would discreetly take down a plaque or two, the ones that contained such information. No need to upset the girl unnecessarily; what would that serve? She’d had hurting aplenty already, and had more on the way; her miscarriage and subsequent illness, her daughter’s death, Mrs. Wilkes’ death, and an apparent marital separation were all neatly documented in the files in our basement office. I hadn’t yet decided if I wanted to let her know of those things. How would you live the rest of your life if you knew, with certainty, just how much you stood to lose? 

Tomorrow. I’d think about all that tomorrow. I installed her with blankets on my buttery leather sofa, brought her a glass of water and turned a lamp on low before repairing to my bedroom with my wary cat padding alongside me. And despite the insanity of the circumstances, I’m certain that sleep claimed her that night long before it did me.

Unfortunately it released her sooner, as well. I’m never at my best first thing in the morning; I’m downright homicidal when awakened abruptly -- say, by the blare of my TV at o-dark-thirty in the a.m. The cat howled and scrambled off my chest, taking some skin with her, as I bolted upright with an extremely unladylike exclamation. Cursing all the while, tripping over the furniture, I managed to dredge up some sweats and wriggle into them before going out to kill my guest. It was not quite five freaking o’clock in the morning, a fact of which I meant to make her painfully aware.

“It is five freaking o’clock in the morning!” I bellowed, slamming into the living room. She jerked around to see me and the look on her face defused my anger in an instant. “What’s wrong? Couldn’t you sleep?”

“No,” she said, in a small voice. She was curled up in a tight little ball at one end of the sofa, the blankets in a cocoon around her. “I had a nightmare. I used to have them all the time, after the war. They went away for a while when I was first married to Rhett, but they’ve come back. I thought maybe this tele –- tell -- this thing might help. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Sighing, I raked a hand through my disheveled hair and came over to join her on the sofa. “It’s all right. I’m sorry I yelled. I’m not very nice when I first wake up.”

“Me either. Rhett always used to say --” she broke off, coloring again. I prodded.

“’Used’ to say?”

“Yes, well, we haven’t...we’ve had separate rooms since Bonnie was born,” she blurted, and she’d gone so alarmingly red I feared for her health. That did help explain the two bedroom suites, however. The door from her bedchamber led right into his sitting room, the room with the larger-than-life painting with the odd dark stain on it. The door that showed signs of having been damaged, and repaired, at some point. I thought I might burst from curiosity, but restrained myself as best I could. I put a consoling hand over one of hers.

“It’s all right, you know. You can speak as frankly to me as you want. In my time, most people are pretty open about -- well, all kinds of things, really. I understand your reticence; you’ve probably never talked about stuff like this to anyone before, let alone a complete stranger. Just don’t...I don’t want you to feel embarrassed, or like I’ll think badly of you. I could tell you some stories that would curl your hair and make you think I was the loosest woman in town, and by modern standards I’m almost puritanical.”

That made her smile. “Have you been married before?”

“Nope.” I considered for a moment, then plunged. “But I’ve had lovers. Does that shock you?”

I could see that it did, but she tried very hard to carry it off in a worldly fashion. “I’ve known women who had lovers before,” she said loftily. “I’m not such a backwards country bumpkin as all that!”

“Never said you were,” I replied comfortably. “I’m just trying to put you at ease. We’re kind of stuck with each other while you’re here, and I feel bad about that -- I mean, it’s my fault you’re here in this weird place, and I feel an obligation to look after you. I want you to be as comfortable as possible.”

“I don’t want to be a burden on you.” She’d stiffened a bit. I shook my head.

“You’re not, not really. I just wish the circumstances had been different. I would’ve liked for us to become friends.”

“Aren’t we?” She shot me an oblique look. I nodded.

“I hope so.”

“You’re not like the ladies I know in Atlanta,” Scarlett said wistfully. “The Old Guard wants nothing to do with me, and most of the new people really are very vulgar and shallow. They only like me because I have a big house and throw parties and they can get themselves up and feel rich and important. I can’t talk to any of them. I can’t talk to anyone. I mean, I know Melly loves me, but -- well, she doesn’t really know me either. If she did...”

“What about your sisters? Weren’t you close to either of them?”

“Carreen’s all right, but she’s in the convent at Charleston and I hardly ever hear from her. And Suellen -- we’ve never gotten along and now I doubt we ever will. Ever since I married Frank she’s hated me.”

“That’s too bad. I don’t have any sisters or brothers. I’m probably better off.”

“I wish I’d had a sister like you.”

That surprised me. “Really? Why?”

“Because you just -- accept things, you don’t seem to be so wrapped up in how you’re supposed to act and what you’re supposed to be doing and thinking and feeling. I’ve never felt a part of things, never could figure out what I was expected to be feeling or how to act like something I’m not.”

Boy, could I ever relate. I told her so. She appeared skeptical at first. “I used to think Rhett liked me, but now...ever since Bonnie came he’s been more concerned with putting on a show of respectability for the nosy old cows than with who I really am. Sometimes I think he hates me, too. He’s so nasty to me.”

“Really?” This was news. Of course I knew that something must have gone horribly awry, as my records had him moving out of the Atlanta house and taking up residence in Charleston late in 1873; but then, I also had other records, notably those most helpful journals of Mrs. Melanie Wilkes, and by her reckoning never had a man loved a woman more than the enigmatic Mr. Butler. I smelled another mystery. 

As for Rhett Butler himself, he’d not been thoughtful enough to leave us with a written record of his adoration. I had letters, of course, that he’d written to her; he traveled extensively, both before and after their marriage, and had been a highly entertaining though not especially romantic correspondent. None of the missives could in any way be construed as love letters, and I got the impression Mr. Butler was one to keep his heart carefully concealed -- if in fact he had one. Of course, the answering correspondence from her to him was no better. It was beginning to look as if love hadn’t played a big role in any of her marriages. I wondered if she’d ever known love, of any kind.

“He’s always been mean,” she went on gloomily, “making jokes and teasing me and trying to make me make a fool out of myself so he could laugh at me, but he’s gotten so bad I don’t know what to do.”

“Is that why -- ah, why you have separate rooms now?”

“No. No, that was...well, partly because I didn’t want to have any more babies and I didn’t know any other way of not having them, but it was mostly because of something someone said. He said that Rhett was coarsening me, that he couldn’t stand to see what he was doing to me and I...I shouldn’t have listened to him, but I did. I thought...oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought.”

“Who told you all this?”

“Ashley Wilkes.” She pronounced the name like it left a bitter taste in her mouth. “Ashley and I -- I always thought that one day...but now...I’m so confused and so tired I swear to you I just don’t know what to do! Rhett doesn’t love me and Ashley doesn’t love me and I don’t know what to think or how I feel or anything. I almost wish I could stay here with you for the rest of my life and be a modern woman and wear trousers.”

I almost wished she could, too; I was starting to get a bad feeling about what her life was like. No wonder the house had such, pardon the expression, bad vibes. If she was rattling around in that big damned mausoleum every day feeling unwanted and unloved and -- oh, worse! -- actively abused, then it was hardly surprising the residuals of that would have carried over into my time, into all time. Some stains upon the psychic are as impossible to get out as stains in the physical realm. This girl’s wretched marriage was the astral equivalent of grape juice, blood and red wine on white wool.

“Have you ever been happy, Scarlett?” I asked her quietly. She thought about that one for a long time.

“Back before the war, I guess I was. And when Rhett and I were first married. We argued a lot, but that’s just how we are. Or were. And then, earlier this spring, I thought we might, I thought things might change, but I was wrong.” She looked up at me now and the tears were streaming unheeded down her cheeks. “He told me he loved me and -- something happened and then he was gone for three months and he took Bonnie and I didn’t know if they’d ever come back. And when he did I was so happy to see him, I wanted to tell him so and that we were going to have another baby but he was so nasty to me and that’s the last thing I remember, Cory I told him about the baby and he asked me whose it was and told me maybe I’d have an accident -- ” And then she was sobbing, full-out sobbing like a lost and broken child and maybe she was, at that. I remembered with a pang what I’d almost said, so eerily like what he’d said, and then I was crying too. I hugged her tight and she held onto me with a panicky grip, sobbing and gasping and scaring me to death with the ferocity of her despair. I was so unprepared for it. It was beginning to dawn on me just how much I lived on the surface of things, my work an excuse not to have to feel the depths of what the woman I held was feeling. I wanted to reach back across the years and choke the living shit out of Rhett Butler for what he’d done to her.

When her sobs had dwindled to a manageable level I released her and headed for the kitchen, where I quickly microwaved up a couple of cups of hot chocolate. There are very few things in this world that can’t be at least somewhat improved by the application of chocolate. When I returned to the living room she was staring bleakly at the TV, which I’d left on a music channel; an old Barenaked Ladies song was playing and I listened to the lyrics and thought, how appropriate, and how sad:

“On an evening such as this  
It’s hard to tell if I exist;  
If I pack the car and leave this town  
who’ll notice that I’m not around...  
I could leave but I’ll just stay --  
All my stuff’s here anyway...”

I handed her one of the mugs and sang along with the chorus, feeling the words on her behalf: “Pinch me, please God tell me that I’m still asleep.”

She wasn’t, and neither was I.


	6. Chapter 6

When it came time to open up the house for another day of my now-shot routine, I was hollow-eyed and half-sick from the combination of nerves, wrung-out emotions and lack of sleep. There’d been no more sleeping for either of us the night before; we’d kept vigil together on my sofa, drinking enough hot chocolate to float an armada and nibbling tollhouse cookies in a depraved parody of a slumber party. The floodgates had opened, the dam had burst, and she held nothing back from me; if she’d never had a confidante in her life, she made up for the lost time in spades. I took no notes, recorded nothing. What good would it have done? What I learned would be of no consequence to the museum, not officially. How could I explain the source of my newfound knowledge and insight? "I see dead people" is hardly an acceptable answer.

But even if it did no more than to satisfy my own burning curiosity, it was a most instructive night, and I came away from it with a new respect for the flamboyant and iconoclastic Mrs. Butler. There were depths to her, dimensions that I feared her contemporaries had never even grazed, would never notice, and I thought that the saddest thing of all -- for inside, she had surprising stores of warmth, and loyalty, a ready wit and a raw untutored intelligence that with the proper encouragement might have blossomed into something spectacular. The things she had done to ensure her family and friends’ survival in the dark years of the war and its aftermath; what nineteen year old of my time, or any other time for that matter, would have the strength of will and the level of loyalty needed to pull that off? I couldn’t have done it. I couldn’t have done a third of what she’d done, survived a fraction of what she’d endured without ending up under heavy sedation. And that she was so sane, so very level-headed and sensible after all that, was surely testament to her essential goodness of character. There was no denying that she’d done some, let’s say, questionable things in the name of survival -- but when I could turn on the news on any given day and see kidnapping after murder after rape after gang shooting, her machinations seemed very small potatoes indeed. Even learning that she’d killed a man didn’t faze me in the slightest. I could see very easily where that would’ve gone had she not been cool enough to pull the trigger; and when she hesitantly told me, sure that I would react with outraged horror, all I could say was, "Good for you." It seemed to soothe her.

Equally intriguing was learning about the other players in the sad strange drama of her life. Names and faces started to flesh out for me as her tale spun along, and she brought them forth from history to reality in the way the best tour guides can sometimes accomplish. I’d gotten glimpses of personality from personal correspondence, from Mrs. Wilkes’ diaries, from the dour and sorrowing poetry written but never published by Mr. Wilkes (and oh, didn’t I now have some insight into some of that gentleman’s subject matter!), but her straightforward narration of everyday events in their shared lives gave them meaning and motion and life. Those people in those photos and portraits, those forms now long dust in the ground, really had once lived and loved and worked, just as surely as you or I do; you know that, of course, but living in the dust of a museum every day it’s a fact that tends to slip loose and get forgotten in the clutter. Scarlett gave that back to me, and something new besides; she gave me her past, and let it become a part of my present.

I eventually called a temporary halt to our conversation, as I had still to get the museum open for the day. I’d already decided I was taking a personal day, but I needed to go gather up the rest of the incriminating evidence from the tower room as well as get the house unlocked and make sure that all the staff was on time and in place. While Scarlett lingered over the scrambled eggs and bacon I’d hastily prepared, I showered and dressed and tidied away the minor mess we’d made in the night. Once she’d finished eating I introduced her to the wonders of my bathtub and shower. Her house had been the first private residence in Atlanta to feature indoor plumbing and hot running water -- a point of pride that I always mentioned on tours -- but the 21st century stuff was a bit more luxurious than even what she’d known, and she laughed with delight at the gush of scalding water and the depth of the tub. She was near to swooning with the opulence of my soap (Irish Spring, for heaven’s sake; nothing exotic at all) and the thick sweet scents of my shampoo and conditioner. Knowing a bit of pampering would keep her well occupied, I provided bath towels and wash cloths and left her to it while I went to see to the house. It seemed different to me this morning, somehow; not so scary as it had sometimes seemed in the past. Or maybe I was the one who was different.

Damn. The tower was in worse shape than I’d realized the night before. The windows still stood open and the floor was awash in crinkly brown leaves. Candle wax had dripped onto the surface of my makeshift altar, and I’d not brought up my pocketknife to scrape with. My ritual tools and trappings were scattered as I’d left them, but were at least easily stuffed into the bag I used to transport them. By the time I’d got the room put to rights and run my bag back out to the carriage house, the first of the staffers' cars was pulling up the graveled drive from the side street entrance. He hailed me as I was crossing the expanse of lawn between my home and Scarlett’s.

"Hey, Cory. We missed you last night. Everything OK?"  
  
"Oh. Well, I was very tired, and I wanted to do some research, so I stayed in," was my evasive reply. Evan gave me a deeply skeptical look, and I tried to look wide-eyed and honest in return. "Look," I hurried on, to cover, "I’m feeling lousy today so I’m gonna take the day off. There are no big groups scheduled today so you shouldn’t have any problems."

"No problems? Are you kidding? You’re not leaving me alone with that crazy woman all day!" He was outraged. I couldn’t help but grin.

"You’re the fool that hired her. Don’t tell me you can’t handle her!"

"I hired her because we needed another tour guide and she acted sane when we interviewed her. What was I thinking?"  
"I’d love to fire her, but if I do, the State will freeze that position and we won’t be able to hire another guide until next fiscal year. You know that."

"Damn the State. Damn the State," he chanted our mantra, stomping.

"Besides, you handle her lots better than I do. She likes you. To her I’m the Great Satan incarnate."

"She thinks you’ll steal her man away from her. And I am SO not her man." Evan was grim. Poor guy, it was kind of funny to watch the predatory Linda throw herself at him every day, but I guess it had to be tiresome for him. I punched his shoulder lightly and skipped ahead to open the back door of the mansion.

"Keep her busy, then. Want me to make up a list of stuff to do? I think the first floor rooms need attention, don’t you? Dusting, sweeping, vacuuming..." I hated to turn her loose with the vacuum, one of those hideously expensive bagless models that sucks the dirt into a water-filled holding tank. I’d upturned the cursed thing once myself, spilling brown dirt-water into the front parlor carpet we’d paid fifteen thousand dollars to have duplicated from original fragments and hand-loomed in London. My head spun at the thought of what destruction Linda could wreak upon the museum if left unattended. Evan looked at me aghast.

"Cory, she won’t go do stuff by herself, you know that. I’ll have to send Bobbi with her and Bobbi can’t stand her either. She goes through the rooms speaking in tongues, did you know that? Says the place is haunted and she has to have the Power of the Holy Spirit to protect her."

"Ha. The only spirit protecting her is bloody Jack Daniel’s -- she’s a souse, Ev, can’t you smell it on her?"

"Dammit. What they say about government jobs is true, isn’t it?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Speaking of smells, do you smell something?" He came around the corner and walked purposefully into the foyer, sniffing the air; he started up the main staircase and paused. "It smells like... like incense or something. Do you smell it?"

"No," I lied. Evan looked down at me, frowning. I knew he was onto something, but I wasn’t about to make it any easier on him. He’s a little spooky himself.

"Constance, what is going on?"

"Nothing. I’m just tired. See?" I pulled the blue-bagged lower lids of my eyes down, sticking out my tongue too for good measure. "Everything’s fine. You can get me on my cell if I go out later. Oh, and would you get Bobbi or one of the volunteers to polish the silver doorknobs on the second floor? They’re tarnishing again. I noticed last night."

"Doorknobs. Right. Cory -- " I stopped and looked back at him, and his face was serious. "Whatever you’re up to, be careful. Some weird things happened last night and -- don’t do anything stupid, or stupider than you’ve already done. Okay?"

"Don’t worry," I said stoutly. "Everything’s fine. Really."

"Hmmph." He grunted, and I could see him wage a little internal war over saying more or letting it drop. At last he shook his head and dropped his gaze, and I made my escape.

Weird things. Right. If he only knew.

Back at the carriage house, I found a clean and shiny Scarlett, scrubbed pink and glowing from the exfoliating properties of my modern cleansing products. She’d donned again the clothes I’d lent her, and secured her long black hair in a thick damp braid down her back. She was settled on the sofa when I came in, a Coke bottle in one hand and a book in the other. It was, I noticed, a book on summoning spirits. Soon I’d be able to write my own book.

"Is this what you were doing, when you got me?" She asked without preamble, waving the book. I nodded. "This person doesn’t know what they’re talking about, do they?"

"No, apparently not. But then I think our situation here is pretty unique. Scarlett, look. I’ve taken the day off, but we can’t hang around here. We need to get you some clothes for while you’re here, so I guess we ought to go shopping. I almost hate to take you out. The world now is so... you won’t recognize it. It’s so loud and fast."

"But I want to see it," she insisted, rising. "People have always tried to keep me in the dark and I’m sick of it. I want to see your world. Is it like on the telly – tela -- on that thing?"

"It’s worse."

"It looks exciting. Oh, do let’s go out and see things!"

"I suppose that would be all right. Only -- would you mind taking that off?" I gestured at the enormous glittering rock that still weighted her left hand. Her right hand clasped over it automatically and she looked at me as if I’d asked her to remove a limb or something.

"But that’s my engagement ring! I haven’t taken it off since -- "

Since Rhett -- or as I’d started to privately think of him, Rat, had put it there. "I know, but you can’t just go out on the street wearing something like that. Most people would probably think it’s fake, big as it is -- "

"It is not! That is a four-carat diamond with another three total carat-weights of emeralds surrounding it!"

Four carats. I thought I might faint. I’d seen a Cartier ad in a recent New Yorker magazine, wherein a ONE carat ring was advertised at 95k. Four carats... "Scarlett, there are people in this world who would knock you down and cut your finger off and TAKE that thing! If you value it that highly, leave it here. I have a safe. Nothing will happen to it, I promise."

"I never take it off," she murmured, twisting it, and I thought I saw her eyes shine a little brighter for a moment. She looked hard at the stone, so clear and faintly bluish, then with decision she set her jaw and wrenched the huge thing free, handing it over to me. It was warm in my palm as I took it into the bedroom and locked it away in my fire safe. She was staring at the small indentation ringing her finger when I came back in.

"And could we -- could we go to Tara?" She asked then. "Would you take me to see it?"

"Sure. We can go this afternoon if you like, though I think I should probably disguise you a little. There are a couple of portraits of you there and I don’t want anybody asking any impertinent questions! We’ll shop, and get lunch, and then drive out to Tara after that."

"But won’t we need to pack? Surely it’ll take all day to get there."

"No, only about half an hour. Cars can go a lot faster than carriages."

After checking to make sure the coast was clear and no staffers were watching, I led her down the path back to the gravel lot at the rear of the property where all our cars were parked. There was the old Crown Victoria, a former police cruiser decommissioned and donated by the State; and next to it the Ford pickup, also courtesy of Georgia. Evan’s black Mazda hatchback and Bobbi’s Camry sat side by side. At the far end of the lot, my own blue Beetle lay dreaming beneath the branches of a young magnolia. Scarlett ran right to it as if the other cars didn’t even exist.

"Oh, the darling thing! Is this your carriage, Cory? Are we really going riding in it?"

"It’s really mine and yeah, we’re really going riding in it." I unlocked her door and opened it, showed her how the seatbelts worked and how to open and close her window. "Now, cars are noisy, and fast, and the other people on the road are all insane -- so just remember all that and don’t panic."

"I won’t panic," she assured me, annoyed. "I want to go fast. Can we go really fast?"

"As fast as I can without getting us arrested, sure. You have to drive fast in Atlanta if you want to stay living. People around here are maniacs."

I turned the key and the little car roared happily to life; and when I put it in gear and got it moving, Scarlett looked like a little girl who’d just been handed a wonderful gift. Soon we were barreling down Peachtree Street with the windows open and the cool breezes of early November streaming in. She was touching switches, looking front and back and side to side as if she couldn’t bear to miss a thing. Her enthusiasm made the city I saw every day seem suddenly a new thing.

"Cory?"

"Yeah?"

"Will you teach me to drive this? I’d so much like to learn."

My blood ran cold at the thought, but I kept my voice steady. "We’ll talk about that tomorrow," I said firmly. Satisfied, she subsided, and I turned on the radio. Tomorrow, indeed. Tomorrow I’d likely need to start seriously thinking of a way to get her back home -- assuming she even wanted to go, and also assuming I could bear to send her back there. All my misgivings about her cold marriage and sterile social life aside, I was growing attached to her. I’d not realized how lonely and isolated I’d gotten until I was no longer either of those things. Going back to my normal life was going to be difficult. Already I missed my new friend, and she was sitting a foot away from me enraptured by the touchscreen display on the dashboard. 

Poor Evan. It looked like I was already way far ahead on that list of stupid things not to do.


	7. Chapter 7

Taking my visitor shopping was an adventure. For some reason I couldn’t see just hauling her off to Wal-Mart or Target for the basics; and though I’m ordinarily the type person who can only be dragged into a mall under extreme duress, I ended up taking her to one of the gargantuan retail meccas off 285. It was the right choice; she loved it. Everything was new, everything had to be admired and examined and exclaimed over. My funds as a government employee are somewhat limited, and lacking a robber baron of my very own to subsidize my extravagances I’ve never gotten accustomed to having the finest of the fine. Her disappointment was obvious when I had to deny her certain objects, most of them involving very large gemstones or the shiny pelts of dead animals. We had a little talk about the devaluation of currency over the years, and the impacts of inflation, and about just how far one woman’s salary could conceivably stretch and still leave money left over for things like car payments and groceries. My explanations satisfied her -- she had a good head for figures, much better than my own -- and she quite graciously scaled back her wants for my benefit. She still preferred the sumptuous and impractical to the kinds of serviceable fabrics I’d have chosen, but I couldn’t resist letting her splurge just a little. She was taking a once-in-a-lifetime vacation to a most exotic locale, after all.

The mall had another benefit as well: it afforded a priceless opportunity for the sport of people-watching, itself almost an anthropological exercise. And she had to know everything. She’d never seen, in person, anyone of Asian origin, nor Indian nor Hispanic nor Arab, let alone so many Black and mixed-race people, and she was fascinated and sometimes appalled by their varied fashions. (“Why are his pants falling off like that? How can he walk?”) I explained, quietly, about gang colors and identifying traits; she looked horrified by the thought, but informed me equally quietly that there’d been gangs and violence in her time too, just maybe not as much, or as obvious. She wanted to know why that lady over there was wearing a long shroud and had her head wrapped up, which necessitated a brief lecture on the Islamic religion. She informed me she was glad I was “some other thing” because she would’ve hated to have to wear all that wrap. Young people (and some not-so-young) with pink and green and purple hair and many studs and bars piercing their flesh elicited giggles of delight: “Did you see the way those old buffaloes over there were staring at the girl with the tattoos and green spiked hair?” I was afraid for a moment she’d ask me where she might get a tattoo -- God, imagine explaining that one to her husband! But it was the Goth kids who most attracted her interest. When a trio of dour, black-haired, black-eyelinered, black-garbed young ladies sauntered by, Scarlett perked right up.

“Oh, so widows in your time still wear mourning!” she said, following them with her eyes. I laughed.

“They’re not widows, that’s just their style. They wear black because they like it.”

She liked the neo-Victorian dresses these girls wore, and the spiky boots and loads of jewelry. I could see the attraction. One visit to Hot Topic later and she had a black dress of her own, long and flowy and modestly bustled in the skirt; I had no idea where she thought I’d take her to wear it, but no matter. She was happy. Victoria’s Secret was an expense I flatly vetoed; no way was I dropping fifty bucks on a single bra, not for myself and not for her either. H&M and Forever 21 provided the best selection of reasonably priced wardrobe staples, and I was able to outfit her appropriately without having to declare bankruptcy immediately afterward. 

I let her choose our lunch from among the food court’s options, and after due deliberation we ended up with Chinese, of all things. She had no idea what she was eating, but she attacked it with relish. I wondered what fortuitous combination of genetics kept her slim, because it certainly had nothing to do with her eating habits. She scraped her plate and was eyeballing mine until I finished my last forkful. I supposed it had something to do with the deprivation she’d endured during the war; that awful hunger had marked her, and it didn’t take a psychologist to see how those marks still pushed her, playing out in a hundred different ways in her daily life. A pity there’d been no understanding of post-traumatic stress in her time, nor any counseling or treatment available. In many ways she was lucky she’d not been labeled “difficult” or “hysterical” and shut away someplace. Those adjudged “insane” in her day were subjected to fates quite simply worse than death.

The visit to Tara was another revelation. The mere fact that I could get us there in under an hour amazed her, but the alteration in the landscape between the two points had her big-eyed and bewildered. She’d never seen a multi-lane highway or a truck stop or a strip mall, never even imagined that one day the dense pine forests and endless acres of farmland would be replaced by concrete and steel, car lots and apartment blocks. Clayton County in the 21st century was an alien world, the landmarks of her youth all but obliterated, with only the occasional street sign or business name to echo them. 

I counseled her before leaving the car that she was not to tip our hand in any way. “Do not correct the tour guide,” I instructed. “Do not talk about ‘your’ anything or your family’s anything. Do not take those sunglasses off. Leave most of the talking to me. I’m serious.” She nodded, seeming perfectly calm, but when I brought the car around the wide drive that wound past the front of the whitewashed brick house, she clutched my hand with panicky swiftness and I saw her go white as the ghost I’d once thought her to be. “What?” I asked, concerned. She swallowed hard and blinked away tears.

“Home,” she said simply. And she was.

The plantation house that was Tara was in many ways far more appealing, far more homelike, than her Atlanta monstrosity ever could be. That house had opulence, had grandeur, but lacked simple warmth and charm; Tara had those last two qualities in spades. The polished heart pine floors, the ceilings that seemed crushingly low after the cathedral vaults of the mansion, solid-color walls lacking mind-destroying frescoes and leering portraits... I introduced her to Sandra at the front door as my cousin Charlotte and asked permission to show her around myself; she had no tours in progress at the time and waved us on, welcoming us. Once we were out of sight and earshot, Scarlett turned to me.

“You’re a very quick liar,” was her admiring comment. “Do you really think she would’ve recognized me?”

“Maybe, maybe not, but who wants to take a chance? I’m not that quick a liar. So what do you think?”

“It looks as nice as it did when I was growing up,” she replied happily. “But how did it become a museum? Why aren’t there still family living in it?”

“The last of your son’s descendants died back in the 1970’s; she was a spinster lady, a history teacher, the very last of the line to bear the Hamilton name, and she made a gift of the house and grounds to the State of Georgia. They restored it over the years, rebuilt some outbuildings and added the visitors’ center and parking area, and here it all sits to this day. I imagine there was a lot more to the grounds in your time.”

“Oh yes, Pa had hundreds and hundreds of acres. How many are left?”

“Only about thirty, if that much. Most of it was sold off years ago, developed for housing and commercial purposes.”

“I fought so hard to save this land. Pa always told me land was the only thing that mattered, and he was right. People can’t be trusted, money comes and goes, but land lasts. I’m glad it’s still here. I wonder how I got it away from Suellen and Will to give it to Wade?”

I tried to remember. “I believe you bought your sister out after her husband’s death -- kicked her out, might be a better turn of phrase -- as I recall you gave her a ton of money for it and she was able to establish herself in a little house in Jonesboro with her children. She even remarried at some point, later in life.”

“Good. Suellen never did deserve Tara, it looked so ratty when she was living in it with all her brats. I’m surprised Will never took a buggy whip to her; it would’ve been no less than she deserved.” Looping her arm through mine, she towed me into the parlor, and exclaimed with delight at the painting mounted over the fireplace.

“Grandmother Robillard’s portrait! It survived all this time!”

“Yes, it’s been cleaned and restored. There was some damage to it, looked like someone had stabbed it or something.”

“Someone did,” she said shortly. “When the Yankees were occupying this house.”

“Oh.” To evade the touchy topic of Yankees (their sins seeming a lot more immediate to her than to me), I turned the conversation back to the portrait. She had pronounced the name correctly, with a pleasing accent, so I asked her if she knew any French. 

“Oui, un peu,” was her pert response. “Grandpère was a terror; he absolutely refused to speak English, and insisted we learn enough French to greet him and make polite conversation on the rare occasions we were forced to visit him. He died when I was pretty young, thank heavens. I have a bit of Irish also, that I learned from Pa, but Mother said it wasn’t very ladylike.” She led me out and down the hall and into a small room that was interpreted as the plantation’s office. She nodded approval at this.

“This was Mother’s office, and then mine, when I was running Tara during the War and after. When I was little and something upset me, I’d come in here and Mother would sit on the settee near the fireplace with my head in her lap. When she – when I came home and she was gone, I thought I’d never feel that safe again.”

I wondered if she ever had, but didn’t want to ask. Pulling herself out of the memory, she turned her back to the fireplace wall. “Let’s go upstairs and I’ll -- I mean, you can show me the bedrooms.” She grinned, and I winked at her and led her up.

Her old girlhood bedroom was on the second floor, one wall sharply slanted along the roofline of the house. A window still provided a spectacular view of fields and trees, and allowed the soft golden light of early afternoon to spill in and shine on the polished woods of furniture and floor. Almost none of the furnishings were left from her time, but she commented upon the few that were; among them were the half-tester bed with its odd slanted canopy, built to fit the space. Her old bed, made up with plump feather tick and candlewicked coverlet. She wrapped a hand around one bedpost, eyes gone distant and dreamy.

“I wonder why I don’t haunt this place,” she mused, looking beyond the window. I considered.

“Maybe because you were happy here. I don’t think people haunt things because they want to; I think they get stuck in a place where things went wrong.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “This was always home, even after I moved to Atlanta and it was Suellen and her family here. Tara was always my place, always mine. I know Pa would’ve left it to me if he’d had a chance to make a will.”

She was right, I suppose, to some degree. I could feel the imprint of her on the place, of course; the energy and heartache and effort she’d put into keeping that house intact had marked it indelibly, and I was sensitive enough to be able to detect her signature among the others still present. Not hauntings, no, but rather the warp and weave of the energetic matrix of the place. Not every place has such a distinct aura about it; but not every place is fortunate to be so loved, and so valued. It’s the emotion that makes the mark, the spark of life at the heart of every creation. She had ensouled this place herself, taking over from her beloved father. It lived still, thanks in no small part to her. I told her all this, and I could see it nearly overwhelmed her with pleasure. 

“Do you like it here?” She asked me. “As much as the house in Atlanta, I mean?”

“I like it differently,” I told her, as we descended the stairs again. Sandra was nowhere in sight. “The Atlanta house is the consuming focus of my life. It’s my job, yes, but it was my passion first, and it still is. I’ve always felt like it was filled with secrets that it might yield up to me, if I could just keep digging long enough. And it finally did! I’m not always comfortable in it; it’s not a happy house, and there are times when the atmosphere there is so overpoweringly unpleasant that I have to get away for a while. But I believe that I was entrusted with its care for a reason, so I can’t leave it -- in a way it’s almost as if I’m as bound to it as you are. This place, Tara, is different. I don’t belong to it. So I like it, and I enjoy coming here because it is so pleasant, but it’s just... different.”

“Yes, I think I understand. Thank you for bringing me here.” At the foot of the stairs she stopped, facing me, and pulled down her sunglasses to look me in the eye. “You’ve been kinder to me than anyone in the world except my mother and Melly. I don’t know why you’re being so nice. It’s not as if I could give you anything, and you already have my house!”

“I don’t know why either. I like you. I’ve always felt like I knew you, somehow, being surrounded by your things and your history every day. I never wanted anything except to know the truth about you, and the answers. I should be thanking you, if anything.”

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she said firmly, replacing the glasses. “In a minute I shall cry, and I hate crying. Don’t let’s be such sentimental fools. Come on outside; I’ll show you where we buried the -- you know.”


	8. Chapter 8

I kept her out all afternoon, wanting to be certain that everyone would have gone home by the time we got back to Atlanta. After leaving Tara we spent our time just cruising. I put the windows down, resisted her efforts to goad me into letting her try driving, turned up the tunes and rode all over town, showing her how her town had changed. She particularly enjoyed Underground Atlanta, which of course in her time had been at ground level. My living history book was only too happy to rattle on about what had been where, who had lived here and what she’d seen and done there. The noise and crowds and confusion seemed not to faze her in the slightest. But then, I considered what Atlanta must have been like then, rising Phoenix-like from the war and starting the climb to becoming what it was now, in my time, and thought perhaps her own past had prepared her pretty well for her visit. The excitement of the place worked on her like a stimulant.

We coasted back onto the mansion’s grounds at just past six-thirty. Everything was serene, all the staff and tourists gone home, so I let her in the carriage house and told her I’d be right back, I had some things to do up at the house. Which I did: I had some incriminating plaques and things to stuff out of sight. She’d been agitating on the drive back to get into the house and spend some time, and I was running out of excuses not to let her. I figured it’d be safe enough, so long as I got some things out of sight. I probably couldn’t keep the truth from her forever, but maybe I could keep it under wraps long enough to get her safely back to her own time. In truth I was simply afraid, afraid to give her knowledge that would hurt. How could she bear it? How could I?

When I’d finished and returned to my apartment, I found her on the sofa, trying to entice my wary cat with a feathered wand. She went into charm mode when she saw me.

“Can I go up to the house now, Cory? I’d really like to spend some time there...alone, if you don’t mind. I won’t change anything, I promise.”

“All right, Scarlett. I can’t exactly refuse you. Here’s the key to the back door; I left the alarm system turned off, so you don’t have to worry about that. If you want a drink or a snack there’s a refrigerator in the office, down in the basement. Next to where the coal bin was in your day. If anything should happen just come and get me; I’ll be up here working on the computer.”

And off she went, happy as the proverbial clam. Glad of the brief respite from her entertaining but draining company, I got online and set about catching up on email and cruising eBay for interesting things. The evening sped by almost unnoticed. There were both business and personal messages to attend to: questions and comments on the candlelight tours and the house’s haunted reputation, chidings from the friends that I’d bailed on on Halloween, ample spam to be deleted unread, and the usual two or three “OMFG look at THIS!” messages from Evan, complete with embedded links to horrifying things. Voice mail netted me a call from my mother, chiding me for not visiting more often, a typically incoherent rant from Linda detailing Bobbi’s failings as an employee and a human being, a “Where the Hell ARE you?” call from Evan, and one from Donna in Payroll verifying the overtime hours we’d put in for. A curator’s work is never done. After I’d virtuously dealt with all the messages (except Linda’s; she’d be far too deep in her cups at this hour) and dutifully examined Evan’s links (and sent back the requisite “That’s disgusting” replies), I settled in for some serious web surfing. I was honor-bound to return in kind repulsive links for Evan’s edification, so I did a little Googling to find something suitably offensive. Then it was off to eBay, the world’s largest yard sale, in search of that one thing -- whatever it might happen to be -- that I simply couldn’t go on living without. I didn’t find it. I did find a couple of nice cartes de visite depicting interesting fashions of the mansion’s time, so I bid on those, then perused the selections of Star Trek and X-Files merch. I made a sandwich, got a Coke from my dwindling supply, fed and loved the cat, cranked up the stereo and sang along while I surfed (I am quite skilled at multitasking). I didn’t realize how late it had gotten or how long Scarlett had been up there by herself until the knocking on my door roused me from my reveries. When I opened the door a vacant-eyed Scarlett stumbled in, coming straight to me and dropping her head against my shoulder like a little girl. Her voice was that of a person who’d received a mortal blow and hadn’t yet realized that they should fall.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Cory? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Oh, shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. I kicked the door shut behind us and led her, numb and unprotesting, back to the sofa. Once seated I held her out to arms’ length and searched her bleak face, feeling like Bluebeard watching his favorite wife die to her own curiosity. “What is it? What happened up there?”

“I went down into your office for a drink. I sat down at your desk and started looking through the big black notebook.”

The Interpretive Manual. It hadn’t occurred to me to stash that, since it hadn’t occurred to me that she’d be in the office unattended -- although I’d all but handed her an engraved invitation. The Interpretive Manual was filled with all sorts of useful information: timelines, birth and death dates, biographical sketches. All the sorts of things I’d tried to keep a lid on while I debated whether or not she really needed to know her own future. Too late now. I wondered what she’d stumbled onto first. Bonnie’s death? Rhett’s? Her own?

“What did you find?” I asked. My voice wasn’t working very well.

“Bonnie,” she said simply. “And this baby and Melly, and then Rhett... I lose everything. Everyone I love either dies or goes away, and Cory, I won’t go back there, I won’t! I can’t bear it. If I stay here, maybe I’ll die there. No one will miss me, not the way I’ll miss them if I -- I won’t go back, I tell you.” She was decisive now, despite the pinched pallor of her skin and the way her fevered eyes burned. “If you won’t let me stay, I’ll go -- somewhere, I don’t know where and I don’t care. I’ll sell my ring. It doesn’t mean anything anyway, my whole marriage was nothing but a lie.” She pulled away from me and got up, pacing restlessly around my living room while I watched her, helpless and hurting on her behalf. I feared she’d lose it, but she didn’t seem at all insane -- beaten, yes, but not broken, and coldly rational. “I didn’t read the rest of it. What else happens to me? I’m sure you know, you knew everything all along. What’s the end of the story?”

“You remained here in Atlanta, here in this house. Your business thrived. You bought out your sister’s share of Tara after her husband’s death in 1885 and you moved back there; your son stayed on here for a while. The mansion went through a succession of renters until -- until your death. Scarlett, I so don’t want to talk about this.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me anything? You didn’t want to? Or you were afraid to?”

“Both. I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t think it could possibly do you any good to know what was going to happen to you.”

“I suppose you were just going to send me back there to face all that and never say a word. How could you? I trusted you.”

“That’s not fair! I mean, it’s not like I do this every day. I’m as lost and confused as you are! Damn. I apologize for – for whatever it is you want me to apologize for. I should’ve told you, I should’ve known there was no way I could hide every scrap of information. Your life is too well-documented!”

She seemed slightly mollified by my unhappiness. “I don’t guess I blame you. I don’t know what I’d do if I were in your position and really, you’ve been nothing but nice to me since I came here. It was just – it was a shock, that’s all, and on top of so many other shocks... Could we have a drink? A real drink? It isn’t like I’m going to hurt the baby or anything, after all.”

Besides moscato and some Blue Moon ale, the only adult beverages I had on hand were a fifth of halfway decent Scotch and one of cognac; she chose the latter. She drank it neat while she paced, silently, and I sat on the edge of a chair gnawing uneasily at my lower lip. I suppose we might’ve gone on in that pointless fashion until one or both of us dropped from exhaustion, had not another knock upon my door distracted us both. I scrambled to open it and was somehow not surprised to find Evan on my threshold. I wasn’t sure anything would ever surprise me again.

“I was driving by and saw every light in the house was on. Is everything all right?”

“Yeah, fine, great, couldn’t be better. Just doing some research.”

“Is it creepy in there again tonight? I’ll help you lock up, if you like -- ” He stopped then, because he’d seen beyond me into the room and caught sight of my visitor, pacing around. The modern clothing did nothing to disguise her, not to someone as accustomed to her likeness as the assistant curator of her mansion-cum-museum. “Holy shit,” he breathed reverently, stretching the phrase into an impossible number of syllables. “She looks just like -- oh holy shit. She IS, isn’t she?”

I nodded. Busted.

“I presume this would explain why you didn’t come over on Halloween night, wouldn’t it? Constance, what have you done?”

“Screwed up big-time, apparently,” I replied, stepping back. “Are you coming in or would you prefer to stand out there all night?” He entered, and I shut and locked the door behind him. Scarlett had ceased her pacing and was regarding us with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. I gave her a helpless look and made a proper introduction: “Scarlett Butler, this is Evan Winter, the assistant curator of the museum. Evan, Scarlett.”

Evan went straight to her, a dozen mixed emotions playing across his warm, expressive face. “Mrs. Butler. What a pleasure it is to meet you.” He offered his hand, which she took. “My God, you’re as solid as we are. Do you remember anything of -- ”

“Evan!” I reined him in sharply. He stopped and had the grace to look chagrined.

“Sorry.”

“Scarlett’s having a rough time of it, and to be honest I am too. She learned some things about her life that were rather upsetting to her, and -- ”

“How? Did you hand her the Interpretive Manual or something?”

“I didn’t hand her anything, she found it on her own, and furthermore I resent your implication!”

He stepped closer. Scarlett was now watching us with interest. “I don’t have to imply anything, I’ll state it flat out. You have a tendency to plow right into things and expect everyone else to keep up, whether they’re prepared to or not. You get an idea into your head and next thing you know stuff’s exploding and you’re standing there going “But I didn’t mean for that to happen!’”

“How dare you come in here and talk to me like that! And what the Hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I feel a disturbance in the force and decide to roll by and make sure everything’s OK, and I find you in here chilling with a dead woman – NBD, right? If you were going to do something ridiculous, the least you could’ve done was call me first!”

“I have to call you now before I do anything? What are you, my dad? I can do anything I want to around here without your permission, whether it’s paint the mansion purple or hold a bloody séance!”

“Séance! Is that what you were up to! I swear to the Gods, Cory, I don’t know how you do it! Is it that you’re completely inattentive, or do you just not know what power you really have?”

“I didn’t do anything,” I insisted, mutinously. “I was going to work the talking board, that’s all. I didn’t expect manifestations.”

“No one ever does.” His voice was softer now, kinder, and in my exhaustion and distress I found myself responding to it in a way that at any other time I’d have found quite alarming. As it was I let him put a hand on my back and guide me to a seat, and I didn’t object when he sat too close. I’d kind of lost track of Scarlett during that interchange, but indistinct rattlings from the kitchen assured me she hadn’t gone far. “So what were you doing, Cory? I don’t mean in the room, I mean inside yourself. Something made this happen; let’s see if we can’t figure out what.”

I told him about the room and the night beyond, the swell of wind and the scratch of tree limbs against the masonry. I told him how the house had felt that night, the way it seemed almost to vibrate with its suppressed secrets, the sounds, the sorrow, and how it had built to a fever-pitch of longing inside me, my desperate need to know who these people truly had been, what had truly happened here, what continued to happen. I told him about the astral landscape, that gray and dismal expanse of swirling mists and shadows, and seeing her there, and then finding her here. I told him everything.

When it was told he was silent for a time, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes staring off into nothing. “Do you know what was going on in her life at the time she came through?” he asked finally, and I explained. I could see the pieces fall together for him, could almost hear the ‘click’. “That makes sense, then.”

“How wonderful for you. Care to elaborate?”

“Sure. Think back to your training. What was the one thing you were told always had to be present for any act of magic, any act of love, any act of creation to be at all effective? Desire. You have to want a thing so badly, so desperately as to make the attaining of it a certainty. You wanted answers, and you got them. But I think she must have wanted something too, and badly; maybe a change, an escape. Somehow your desires must have collided -- no, I have no idea how, so don’t look at me like that! Somehow between the two of you, you managed a miracle. The question is what are we going to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” I said morosely. “We can’t keep her here, but she refuses to go back. She’s convinced everybody hated her and she has nothing to go back for -- and I’m not sure that she’s not right. After the things she’s told me...”

“Hated her? Damn, I wish people hated me like that. How can she not see -- oh. Never mind. Same way you can’t. Deliberate obtuseness. Right.”

“What the Hell are you on about now?”

“Not a thing. But, look, check this out. She doesn’t see it, and neither do you, but what she’s got here is an amazing opportunity. How many people get the chance to go back and fix their future?” 

"But how could she do that? Her future's our past -- it's already happened, we have the documentation to prove it."

"Sure, but all that happened along a different timeline, for want of a better word." Evan was warming to his topic. The kitchen had gone quiet, and I felt certain Scarlett was avidly eavesdropping. "Everything up to the point where she came through -- the breaking point, the point of departure -- that should remain unchanged, but everything beyond that is wide-open now. The two of you broke the pattern."

"But -- but history is set, isn't it? Doesn't the existence of everything here prove that the past is unalterable?"

"What crap have you been reading? Time isn't static, Cory, nothing is. All of everything in the universe is made up of energy and motion and flux. If it wasn't, what you did couldn't have happened -- but it did, and the proof of it is standing right here in your apartment. You changed history the moment you cast that circle and brought her from one world into another. Don't you get it? It's not so much that you were reaching back in time as you were reaching across time, just like if you reached across the table and brought your glass back to the sofa here."

"I feel like I should have taken some more advanced science classes,” I confessed. Evan nodded.

"No, just a refresher on Clarke’s laws. We’re at the point where science and magick are indistinguishable. So, the way I see it, Mrs. Butler there has an opportunity to go back and correct whatever perceived mistakes she made from the breaking point forward. She has the knowledge now. You said she must have come through at the time of her fall? That was what, summer of '71?"

"Yes. She remembered quarrelling with Rat -- uh, Rhett, and nothing beyond that. She was apparently unconscious for a period after that fall, so that must be where she is now in the other timeline. Gods. Evan, do you remember on the show Quantum Leap, how when Sam would leap into somebody they'd end up in the waiting room there and Al would talk to them? And they'd be all wigged out? This is like that. I'm a historian, not a physicist. I'm not doing this very well."

He slung an arm around my shoulders and squeezed me. "You're a magician, too, remember? That makes you all the above and then some. Come on, Cory, don't freak out on me now. Being unconscious must've made it easier for her to go walking between worlds -- which is where she must have been, out there meandering on the astral, when you found her and dragged her in here. Now, the tricky thing is going to be sending her back across without stranding her back there in the astral with no idea how to get back to her body.

"I'm hoping that she'll be able to carry the memories of her time here back with her, and that they won't be lost in the shuffle when she comes out of the coma or whatever state she’s in. She'll be ill when she wakes up, and I don't honestly know what she'll remember and if she'll even lend it any credence. It'd be far too easy to dismiss crazy stuff like this as dreams and hallucinations."

"It doesn't matter anyway, she said she wasn't going back. I don't see how on earth we could get her back if she doesn't want to go."

Evan lowered his voice. "We'll just have to find a way to make her want to go back."

Sure, that'd be easy.

Evan shoved himself purposefully off the sofa and tackled my bookcase, apparently bent on doing some research of his own. I went in search of Scarlett and found her leaning against a kitchen counter, face carefully bland. "I know you've been listening, and I'm sure none of it made a damn bit of sense to you," I said. "Do you want to come and sit with us?"

She followed me out with no hesitation and claimed a seat at the far end of the sofa next to my cat, who sat twitching her tail against the seat with small thumps. I joined her and began asking a few more impertinent questions, which she answered calmly. If we were going to send her back, I had to be absolutely certain of what I was sending her back to. I wanted the circumstances surrounding her fall, the whats and the whys that led up to it; the original aftermath I already knew.

"Forgive me asking this, Scarlett, but I have to know. You were, ah, with child, at the time you fell." She nodded. "You said that you and your husband had stopped, um, sharing a room after your daughter was born." Another nod. "Had that changed?" A vigorous shake of the head. "So then -- Hell, there's no nice way to ask this -- whose baby was it?"

She looked like I'd smacked her. "It was Rhett's, of course! Remember I told you that something had happened, before he left with Bonnie and was gone for so long?"

"You told me that, but you didn't tell me what the something was. Part of it I can guess -- " This made her blush, " -- but the rest of it you'll have to fill in for me. It must be good. Let's have it."

She cast a look in Evan's direction; he was happily occupied with books and appeared to have forgotten we even existed. "Is he -- ?"

"He is the most trustworthy person I know. Don't worry about it."

"Well, all right then. On Ashley's birthday, this past spring -- "

"Ashley Wilkes again?"

"Yes. On his birthday, Melly planned a surprise party for him. I was out at the lumber office in the afternoon and ran into Ashley there, and the first thing out of his mouth was about the party, that he wasn't supposed to know about! Anyway, we got to talking, and Ashley started reminiscing about the old days -- about how it was, back in the County when we were growing up. I hate looking back, because it makes me so blue, and... it upset me, thinking back, it made me sad, and Ashley hugged me. A friendly hug, there was nothing bad about it at all, it didn't mean anything in the world -- but India Wilkes showed up and saw us, and she's always hated me, and she went and told everybody in town that Ashley and I... " She trailed off, hiding her face in her hands for a moment. "It was awful," she went on, finally. "I went straight home and went to bed, and just prayed Rhett wouldn't -- oh, but of course he did. Gossip travels fast. He came home and when I told him I wasn't feeling well, he called me -- "

"What?" I asked, outraged already on her behalf. She choked out the words.

"A white-livered cowardly little bitch. Which I was! Cory, I was terrified! How could I face everyone, knowing it was all a misunderstanding and knowing that not a soul in town would believe me? And Ashley -- he didn't say a word when it happened, not one word and he could've convinced India of the truth. And I wanted to explain to Rhett, but he -- well, he's always known about how I -- how I felt about Ashley and he wouldn't listen to me. He made me go to the party, even though everybody in town was thinking the absolute worst of me... Oh, it was a nightmare!"

How she must have felt. I could scarcely imagine. 

"He said if I didn't go I'd never be able to show my face in town again."

I considered that for a moment, and found to my annoyance that it made a certain sense. Had she stayed away, cowered in a corner, hidden from the world, it would have been tantamount to a tacit admission of wrongdoing -- and I had no reason to doubt her when she said there had been none. I could fault him, perhaps, on not hearing her side of the story, and not standing up in her defense, but I could also see where this might have been a battle she needed to fight on her own. Maybe it also helped to cast Ashley Wilkes in a truer light for her, as well.

"What happened?"

"India wasn't there. Melly -- well, she didn't believe a word of what was being said, but then she's never -- she never can see the bad in anybody or anything. Everyone at the party was polite to me, though some of them were a little cool. And Ashley... he couldn't even look me in the eye the whole night."

"It sounds awful."

"It was! I left just as soon as I was able and of course Rhett took off in the carriage and didn’t even come in with me. I just went on to my room and tried to sleep, but I couldn't... and then later I decided to go downstairs for a drink and there he was. He was in the dining room, and he was so drunk! Cory, I've never seen him drunker, and usually when Rhett's drunk he just gets more sarcastic and distant, but that night he was different. I've never seen him like that before. He said things to me he'd never said before. Awful things. But he also said he loved me and I believed him. He'd said it before, but in that horrible way of his that makes it impossible to tell if he's joking or not. He was so drunk there was no reasoning with him, so I told him I was going to bed, but he followed me and... grabbed me and... "

She blushed. She bit her lower lip. She twisted her hands in her lap. I wanted to shake her, if only because her rotten rat of a Rhett wasn't there for me to shake instead. "Are you telling me that he raped you?" I asked it quietly but firmly. I'm not sure what response I expected, but it wasn't the one I got.

"He meant to, yes; he was drunk and angry and wanted to force me to -- but he didn't have to force me, at all. I -- " Her eyes were very wide, her voice very low, and it was obvious she was admitting this not only to me but to herself for the first time ever. "I wanted it. I wanted him to -- I wanted him. Everything changed after that. I was so happy the next morning, but then when he didn't come home for three days, and when he did come home he was so cold and hateful that I knew it'd all been a lie, just another drunken night for him and it hadn't meant a thing to him. I didn't mean a thing to him, any more than... "

"Perhaps he was afraid," came a voice from across the table, and we both looked up startled. We'd forgotten about Evan. Scarlett scoffed.

"Rhett, afraid? He's never afraid of anything. What would he have to be afraid of?"

"You'd be surprised, how stupid people can act when their emotions are involved. Or maybe you wouldn't. Mrs. Butler -- "

"Call me Scarlett, won't you?"

"Scarlett, then. Showing emotion makes one vulnerable. It's the same as showing weakness, and the ideal of manhood is to be strong and invulnerable. It's stupid, but that mindset still exists in our time, and I'm certain it was in play in yours. If your husband was deeply inculcated with -- "

"Incul-what?"

"If he had taken that ideal to heart, he would probably find it very difficult to express emotions to you -- particularly if he knew you were in love with someone else!"

"But he knew from the start that I loved Ashley! And when he proposed he said he didn't love me but -- oh, can you see why I'm so confused? He says one thing and does another, none of it makes any sense at all, and some days I wish I'd never laid eyes on him!" She spat this last out, her small fisted hands pressing knuckle-gouges into the seat cushion.

Evan leaned his elbows on the table, regarding her with those solemn hazel eyes. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes, of course. What?"

"Do you love your husband?"

"I – I -- " She was sputtering like a stalled car. I'd thought myself pretty clueless where feelings were concerned, but this girl had me beat. "I don't know!" She burst out at last, passionate and lost. "It isn't anything like how I used to feel for Ashley. Rhett excites me and infuriates me and makes me madder than anybody in the entire world ever has. He's not like any man I've ever known. When he's nice to me -- he used to be nice sometimes -- I'd just want to curl up in his arms and stay there forever, but he always has to turn right around and do something nasty afterwards. Back before we were married, when he'd leave town I never worried about him much, because I always knew he'd be back; and when he came back, I was always glad to see him, even if I was mad at him. When he was gone this last time, after we -- I missed him more than I knew I could miss anybody, him and Bonnie both, and I was so happy when he came home, so glad to see him. I wanted to tell him so, but... It's hopeless. I tell you both it's hopeless. There's no reason for me to go back there, no reason at all. Even if he did love me once he doesn't now, he's done everything in the world to make Bonnie love him and not me, and my other two children would be better off without me in any case. What does it matter if I do love him? It's too late."

"Maybe. Maybe not. It might be just as you say, or it might be that you can go back and change the course of history -- your own, anyway. But there's only one way to find out."

“What makes you so sure I could get back?” Scarlett asked. Evan shrugged.

“I’m not sure at all. As far as the accepted laws of the universe are concerned, you shouldn’t be here now -- but here you sit. I’m going on the assumption that what goes up must come down. If there was a way to get you here, there must be a way to get you back there. You see?”

She nodded. “At this point I almost believe anything’s possible.” Idly she scratched Foo’s sleek head. Evan abandoned the bookshelves and plopped into an Eastlake rocker I’d rescued from the mansion’s basement. Silence fell and held for a time as we all lapsed into our own meditations; Scarlett was the one who finally broke it again.

“Mr. -- Evan. You’re a man.”

“Last time I checked.”

“What do you think? About Rhett, I mean. When he proposed to me he said he’d have to marry me because he couldn’t have me any other way, and I always believed he’d meant it -- he wanted me for his mistress, you see, but of course I wouldn’t. And he -- ” Here she lowered her voice, going crimson with the effort, “he had another mistress, and he helped her set up her business, so I know... Is that all I am to him, do you think? Just a slightly more respectable mistress?”

“I can’t presume to speak for any man other than myself, but here’s what I think. I can imagine a man marrying for lust, but I can’t see it lasting long if there’s nothing else behind it. I know divorce was all but unheard of in your day, but had he wanted rid of you I doubt a man like I suspect your husband to be would’ve let anything stop him. He had money, and power, and a reputation for scandal -- yes, I know all about him, I’ve done plenty of my own research! He might have married you, and even set up housekeeping with you, but probably not on such a scale as this. Scarlett, come here, please.”

Mystified, she got up and followed him to the door, me trailing along behind and Foo bringing up the rear. Evan opened my front door and shooed Scarlett out onto the landing. He paused for a moment, looking pointedly around him, taking in the panorama of the property. The big house rose before us, ahead and slightly off to the right, the rear elevation with the sweeping second-floor gallery visible. The terraced expanse of the back lawn, the ornamental gardens I browbeat the volunteers into weeding and feeding, the charming iron gazebo I’d stripped, primed and painted myself in a frenzy of annoyance over funding cuts that would’ve left it rusty and rotting. The mature trees, the riot of roses, even the carriage house we stood in. All of this had been Scarlett’s wedding gift, a monument not only to her extravagance and dubious taste, but perhaps to a husband’s indulgence and affection as well. Could you just hand someone a world like that -- a world of time and effort and an unimaginable fortune -- without loving them to the point of unreason?

I glanced past Scarlett at Evan, and when I caught his eye I couldn’t suppress the grin. Clearly he was hoping Scarlett would arrive at the same conclusion I’d just drawn. She was surveying her domain, or what had been her domain, looking long and hard and perhaps from a slightly new perspective. Evan leaned against the railing, prepared to deliver the closing argument. I waited, and was not disappointed.

“I can’t speak for him, but I couldn’t imagine bestowing all this on anyone less than the woman I loved more than life itself.”

Evan has a romantic streak. It serves him well, in some instances.

“Do you think so?” Scarlett asked, gazing moodily at the gazebo. I scooped up Foo and leaned beside her.

“I do,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. Scarlett, he’s got money, right? Boatloads of it, the entire damned Confederate treasury if you believe some of the contemporary accounts. Here’s a guy who can pretty much do anything he wants, any time and anywhere. He’s richer than God, he doesn’t give a damn what anybody thinks about him, he’s disgustingly good-looking -- ”

“You think Rhett’s handsome?” She asked me, giggling. I rolled my eyes.

“Good lord, woman. The man is a sexy beast -- I’ve got photos! Don’t tell me you never noticed?”

“Well, yes, of course, but -- ”

“My point is, he could do anything he pleased, and probably have any woman he wanted. He wanted you. He married you. Did he have to indulge you like this? Give you anything you wanted, take you anywhere you asked? No. But he did. If it were just lust, I think he would’ve gotten fed up and put the quietus on this ages ago.”

“Maybe.” She turned her back on her other life and focused her attentions on us. “I just wish I could know for sure, know anything! I wish I could be as sure as you two seem to be. You’re not there -- back there, in my life, living with him every day and seeing how he is. Going away for weeks, sometimes months, having nothing but jokes and insults for me when he’s home, openly carrying on with that -- his mistress... I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been since we just sat down together and had a friendly conversation. We used to; back before Bonnie was born we used to talk all the time, about all kinds of things. Back then I could tell Rhett anything. He acted like he was proud of me, proud of my business sense and how I could make the store and the mills turn a profit when everybody else around me was starving and in rags. We’d sit up together at night sometimes for hours. But after Bonnie came he just shut me out.”

A rare flash of insight came streaking across my consciousness like a meteor, and I managed to grab hold of it before it got away. “Scarlett, did you ever think that maybe he shut you out after you shut him out?”

There was that look again, and had “Huh?” complete with slack jaw and blank stare been in common usage in her time, I’m sure she’d have employed those too. “What do you mean?”

“You two were much friendlier back when you still shared a room, right? I have to imagine that your rejection hurt him pretty deeply. The whole thing’s textbook, really. One form of intimacy is withdrawn and soon enough they’re all gone.”

Poor Scarlett looked like her brain was about to explode. “Is there anything you two don’t think you know? I declare I’ve never met such a pair of experts! If you think you know Rhett so well why don’t one of you go back there and try living with him?”

I released the struggling cat and directed her back indoors. “Scarlett, try to understand how it is for us,” I said gently. “I’ve been associated with the museum here for over ten years now, and Evan’s been here for five. In that time we’ve both probably read and re-read and re-re-read every scrap of information we could find about you, and your family and your lives here. Now, no one’s life is perfectly documented, of course, and the only person who’ll ever know the full story of anything is the one who’s living it; but we’ve got a pretty comprehensive collection here in our archives, and we’ve been able to piece together a pretty compelling story. We couldn’t know all the details of personality, since neither you nor Rhett left us much by way of personal writings that would reveal them, but we could infer from various accounts and sources, and also from events and the way they played out. It was the gaps in the story that drove me nuts, and among other things compelled me to do what I did that ended up bringing you here. 

“I guess I’m just a damned romantic fool -- and I know for a fact that he is,” I added, tilting my head in Evan’s direction. “I’ve lived with your story for so long, and what a story it is! It seemed larger than life, somehow, of such greater scope and grandeur than anything I’d ever know. And so very sad, in the end. I always felt -- somehow, that it wasn’t meant to end the way it did. Maybe it had to -- maybe the greatest stories are great because they end in tragedy -- but I always wanted the happy ending for you.”

Scarlett looked sharply at me and caught me blinking away tears. She looked away, and her voice was rough when she spoke. “What a lot of nonsense you talk about, Cory. Happy endings. How can you be happy when it’s an ending?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t you happy when what’s ending is a headache? Or a war or something else awful?” That made her grin. “Everything ends eventually, but endings are also beginnings -- I believe that if I believe nothing else in this world. But shit does happen, accidents and twists of fate and dumb luck and sometimes, just lousy choices that seem perfectly reasonable at the time. I’ve had my share of all-the-above and I think you probably have, too. Maybe I’m just projecting my own desire to fix the what-ifs onto you. This is all so... ”

“Miraculous,” Evan supplied. “Bizarre. Cool. Fucked up.”

“What does fu-- ”

“Never mind.” I wasn’t close enough to kick him. “Scarlett, you’re right; you live with him every day so obviously you know more about the situation than we do, but the point here is you probably don’t see the whole picture, either. No one ever does, especially in their own lives. Everyone has a blind spot or two.”

“Maybe we should let her read some of our documentation,” Evan suggested. “Get an outside perspective. Mrs. Wilkes’ journals in particular, I think.”

“Melly’s diary?” Scarlett was surprised. “I never knew she kept one.”

“She appears to have been a very reflective individual, and quite perceptive for all her reticence. Damn you Victorian women and your coyness anyhow -- well, not you, Scarlett, you’re about as coy as a brick most of the time, but you know what I mean.”

“Should I read Melly’s diary, do you think?” It was obvious that she really, really wanted to, but was hoping someone would tell her it was all right. I nodded firmly.

“Yes. Technically, she’s dead now, so it’s not really an invasion of privacy; it’s history.”

“Cory’s very good at finding loopholes,” Evan said breezily, brushing past us and clattering down the stairs. I nudged Scarlett ahead of me and paused only long enough to shut and lock the front door.

“I have to be,” I reminded him. “I work for the State.”

~~break~~

Evan settled Scarlett at my desk, brought her a drink, then stacked the photocopies of Melanie Wilkes’ diaries in front of her. We had the originals too, of course, but they were fragile in their age and usually kept locked safely away wrapped in protective acid-free paper. Transcribing her careful prose had been one of my first tasks at the mansion many years ago, and it was the fruit of my labor that Evan lay before Scarlett now. Judging by the size of the pile he’d only provided her with the first two or three volumes; there were twelve in all, nice plump books filled with closely-spaced little script. The transcription of them had nearly driven me blind.

While they dealt with that, I set about straightening up the office, which showed signs of a bit of a storm having blown through -- Hurricane Scarlett, in a state of high piss-off, to be precise. Papers were scattered everywhere. Likewise photos, and file folders, boxes divorced from their lids and contents, books off the shelves, a chair overturned. I offered no reprimand, and though she looked chagrined upon reentering the room she said nothing in excuse or explanation. She didn’t need to. I quietly re-imposed order on the chaos, Evan pitching in once he’d gotten her settled. When it was done I took him with me to go turn out the lights around the rest of the house, which was still blazing forth like Christmas and wasting god awful amounts of power. 

Such a big house -- and, I noticed, such a quiet one. There was a quality of stillness to the house now that simply hadn’t existed before, not in all my years of knowing it; there was an air of expectancy and stasis now, as if it hung poised out of time just as its mistress did. I didn’t much like it. Part of me expected the balance to tip at any moment, and Gods only knew what would happen then. Manifestations, perhaps. Slipping in and out of time with no rhyme or reason to it. I might open a door and walk into 1871 and not be able to walk back out. Who knew? The problem with infinite possibilities is just that -- there are too damned many of them. My imagination was only too willing to present me with a number of unpalatable options. None of them would be easily explainable to the higher-ups at the state Capital. 

Evan commented on it as we made our way through the first-floor rooms together. “It’s too quiet, Cory.”

“I know. It’s like whatever was here, now isn’t.”

“It’s still here, but it’s like it’s waiting for something. Or someone. This house itself is a living thing, you know.”

“I do know -- but I’ve never heard anyone else but you say it.”

“It’s true. You know it and I know it. I think maybe Linda knows it too, though she doesn’t respond to it as we do. If I’d known how she was I wouldn’t have hired her; this kind of atmosphere isn’t good for someone who’s sensitive but not open.”

I knew what he meant. Linda, for all that she really was mentally unstable, and alcoholic to boot, was as sensitive to “things” as we were, perhaps even more so. Unfortunately, rather than fascinating and exciting her, it simply terrified her; and the character of her religious beliefs only enhanced and further drove her fear. Those things she felt but could not see, the strange sounds and swirling energies that ordinarily enlivened the house, to her were all manifestations of demons--evil distractions sent by the Enemy of her God. When I wasn’t mad enough to choke her I could almost feel pity for her; living daily with that level of fear had to be awful. 

“She can’t know about this,” I said, walking ahead of him into the dining room. “Or Bobbi, either, for that matter. I don’t even think we should tell any of the others.” I referred not to our employees and volunteers but to the handful of friends that comprised our occasional magickal working group, the gang I thought of as the uncoven. Evan shrugged.

“What if we need their help?”

“We’ll deal with that when we come to it.” Idly I ran a hand over the intricate carved surface of a throne-like mahogany chair. The dining-room suite was a prize, an astonishing matched set of insane opulence; that it was still intact was a minor miracle. The table, fully ten feet long (and that without the leaves), shone dully in the subdued light of the electrified gas sconces. The chair backs were a good five feet high and the awful things weighed about forty pounds apiece. Against the far wall stood the sideboard, also ten feet in length and so massive it could never be removed unless completely dismantled and taken out in pieces, as it had no doubt been brought in. 

“Even this room is quiet,” Evan said at length, having been standing in place with his eyes closed for a time. I nodded agreement. “You don’t like this room, do you?”

“Not a lot, no.” It went beyond a mild distaste for the overwrought pseudo-Gothic furniture. It was far too easy for me to see Scarlett and her husband, their marriage sinking daily, sitting at opposite ends of this enormous shining sepulcher with nothing left to say to each other. Depressing. The room had a darkness about it that no amount of electric lighting ever managed to chase away. “But you’re right -- I can’t feel it now.”

"I wish I could know for certain what's going to happen." Evan pulled out the chair at the head of the table and sank onto it, leaning on his elbows and staring at nothing. "I don't want... I don't want any of this to have changed. I don't want us to send her back and wake up the next day never having had this place, never having known each other."

Those same thoughts had crossed my mind too, but it was still strange hearing them voiced. The thought of a changed world, a changed life, scared the Hell out of me. I'm not, as a general rule, one of those people who clings closely to routines; I'm not afraid of a little change and flux in ordinary life, or at least I didn’t think I was. But the Mansion, my work -- it was my life, my vocation, my calling. What on earth would I be without it? Still living with my parents, probably, down in the basement like a proper loser geek... surfing the internet, hanging round in fandom subreddits or worse... working some lame-ass cube-farm job with no hope of escape... 

With some effort I shook off this morbid phantasm. "Me either. I can't not be here, Evan. Here at the Mansion, with you, doing these things, living this life. I don't want another life! I like this one. Poor Scarlett would give anything for a different life and here I am wanting to keep mine exactly the same."

"Exactly the same?"

"Yes, exactly the -- " I happened to look at Evan then, and immediately lost my train of thought. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like -- like Foo looks at the door right before a bug comes in under it. I don't know if I want my life to stay exactly the same forever, but I want the essence of it unchanged. You know? I want to have the Mansion, and keep doing my research, looking after the house, doing stuff with you, all the things I do every day without thinking about how much they mean to me. There's room in there for changes, sure, but... oh, you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. Sit down, Cory, you pacing around like that's driving me nuts." A hand shot out as I ambled past, catching my wrist and stilling my restless progress. I had every intention of sinking into a chair of my own, but somehow I ended up perched on the edge of the table instead, knee to knee with my assistant curator, whose hand released its grip on my wrist only to slide down and take possession of my hand instead. "The problem is, everything's already changed -- for her more than us, but obviously we're affected too. Getting her back is the least of our concerns. What she does once she gets there will determine the course, not only of her future, but of ours too."

Which left poor Scarlett with a handful of unsavory options. She could return to her time, knowing what she'd already learnt of her future, and do nothing, let history unfold as it already had -- let history repeat itself, essentially. Could she do that, armed with the knowledge she'd gained since arriving here? Could anyone? Knowing about an upcoming tragedy, knowing how to avert it, and not doing anything to stop it...

Or she could, quite rightly, return to her time and set out to change her life; who could blame her? If she could shore up her failing marriage, release her fixation on her childhood beau, alter the course of events that would lead to her beloved daughter's fall or Mrs. Wilkes' final illness, would she not be perfectly within her rights to do so -- and damn the consequences to those of us who wouldn't even be born for another hundred years. If she even remembered any part of her time here; there was no guarantee she would. The records indicated that, following her fall and miscarriage, Mrs. Butler had been ill indeed: concussion, infection, anemia. Assuming she had any memory of this, and didn't dismiss it all as hallucination, what might she choose to do?

I said as much to Evan, noticing as I did so how the color of his eyes shifted in the room's moody light. He kept his firm grip on my hand as I spoke, and his pleasant, familiar face was as somber as I'd ever seen it. I tried to imagine a world where I didn't see that face every morning and couldn't. Didn't want to.

"I guess," he said, after a long reflective pause, "we're just going to have to educate her in our ways a bit, so that when she gets back, she retains cognizance of what's happened."

"Can we do that?"

"I don't know; nobody's ever tried it before, to my knowledge. But hey -- you love making up the rules as you go along, so this should be great fun for you."

"Fun. Right. Sometimes even I like to follow the instructions, Evan."

"Well, despite what some people think, there is no one set of instructions where magick is concerned. But if it makes you feel any better, at least you don't have to do it alone."

That did make me feel better, and I told him that too. Then I surprised us both by leaning over and kissing him on the forehead. I never do stuff like that. Nor does Evan ever do stuff like what he did next, which was to tug me down off the table and onto his lap. We sat there like that for I don't know how long. It didn't solve anything, but it made us both feel better, so I can hardly count it as wasted time.

Finally I got to my feet again, wondering just how much had already changed, and what changes were yet to come. I offered Evan a hand up, which was quickly taken, and we proceeded on our way through the big house.


	9. Chapter 9

Just turning the lights on or off for the day is an adventure at the Butler Mansion State Historic Site, if only because the place is so bloody enormous. We have, if you weren't aware, 25 rooms (count them yourself if you don't believe me) spread out over three floors (not counting the full basement, thanks, the floorplan of which mimics that of the mansion's first floor) and--brace yourselves—nearly 15,000 square feet. Breaker boxes were installed on each floor in the 1980s, containing master switches for all the rooms on the floor, but we've gotten in the habit (particularly during the Halloween season, when we have so many people going through the house) of checking each room and turning the switches off individually. It doesn't take as long as you'd think it would; once you're as familiar with the place as I am now, you can do a visual sweep of a room in seconds and determine if an artifact is so much as a hairsbreadth out of position. Which they often are. Things have a way of shifting around in certain rooms. Surprise!

But tonight there was nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary. The big house sat placidly, all of its little geegaws in their places, and the lights we put out, stayed out. (They don't always.) We took the main stairs to the second and third floors, then came down the back stairs from the third all the way to the basement. Scarlett was right where we'd left her, parked at my desk, absolutely engrossed in Mrs. Wilkes' diary. I remembered my own excitement at delving into those same volumes several years ago and couldn't help but smile.

She glanced up when we came in, and for a moment I couldn't figure out why she was looking at us so oddly; then I realized that our hands were still linked, and I let go in a hurry, feeling color rise in my cheeks. Evan, blast him, hadn't the decency to be embarrassed; he sauntered into the room and plopped himself down at his desk, leaning back in his chair quite casually. Mentally damning them both, I leaned against my own desk and inquired as to what Scarlett had learned while we'd been away. Her face turned serious again.

"Isn't it odd how you can know somebody practically forever and yet not really know them? I always thought of Melly as being kind of, well, simple; she's so quiet and -- deferential, and hardly ever speaks her mind about anything. Oh, I knew she wasn't stupid, she proved that to me during the War, but... Well, honestly, I just dismissed her as being a bluestocking, and terribly boring! But now, reading her thoughts, I can see why she and Ashley... They think alike. Even way back. She was, oh, I guess she was seventeen when she was writing this, she's a year older than me... "

I leaned over, trying to make out the words put down in Mrs. Wilkes' fine, elegant hand. I'd always rather wished I could've known Mrs. Wilkes; her diaries painted a pretty clear picture of a very thoughtful and introspective woman, deeply devoted to her family and her friends and Scarlett in particular -- her feelings toward my Mrs. Butler seemed almost maternal. Her early death had always struck me as particularly tragic, and I'd always wondered that someone could want another child so much that she'd risk her life to have it -- but then, I'd never had much of any maternal instinct myself (a trait I apparently shared with my visitor), so such things would always be mysterious to me. Nonetheless, the Mrs. Wilkes I'd come to know through her diaries I liked very much. I almost wished I could go back to her time and meet her.

"We're hoping to get permission to publish those diaries," Evan said, bringing his chair back down on all four legs with a thump. "There are still some Wilkes relations living, and we're planning to approach them about letting us publish the wartime volumes."

"Melly wrote about the war?" Scarlett flipped ahead through the stack of pages. "About while we were in Atlanta, and when we went to Tara?"

"Yes, it's all in there," I told her. "It's an amazingly detailed account of what homefront life was like during the fall of Atlanta, as well as being a record of the deprivations endured during and post-war in the country. That's why we want to publish; her words would add so much to what historians know of civilian life during the war."

"People still care about the war?" She was intrigued. I nodded.

"Honey, people are still fighting the war. It's still being written about, movies and documentaries and TV shows are made about it, people have meetings to discuss it -- Hell, people dress up and go out and reenact it!"

"Reenact it? With guns and things?" Scarlett seemed completely baffled by this concept. It was baffling, really, until you got used to the idea. 

"Yes, with guns and things, although the guns shoot blanks and the cannons don't have any loads. It's a big thing, Scarlett, people all over the country do it."

"Yankees, too?"

"Yes, Yankees too. People in other countries, even."

"Would you like to see a reenactment?" Evan asked. Her affirmative reply was almost too quick. My horror was barely containable. 

"Evan, you dipshi--"

"There's bound to be an event around here sometime soon that we can take her to. I'll go online tonight and find out. You'll show those farbs a thing or two, won't you, Scarlett?"

"I certainly will," she said, laughing; then asked, "But what's a farb?"

As it turned out, we hadn't long at all to wait -- as Evan bloody-well knew and I had, what with one thing and another, forgotten until then. The annual Battle of Atlanta celebration was going on that very weekend down in Conyers, just as it did every year on the first weekend of November. Evan and I had gone the past three years running, meeting up with some friends of his who portrayed a Confederate artillery regiment; they camped and brought out multiple field pieces and generally had a, you should pardon the pun, blast. We'd planned on attending this year as well, going down for the day on Saturday in full regalia and stomping around in character for several happy hours. I had a strange foreboding that bringing along our unexpected guest was going to be a Very Bad Idea, but neither Evan nor Scarlett would hear a word from me.

"It'll be fun for her, Cory," Evan said mildly, turning his monitor around so Scarlett could peer over his shoulder at the official battle web site. "She can dress up and get out of the house for a while, and see how people even today honor the sacrifices their ancestors made for the Glorious Cause of--ow! Why'd you smack me?"

"Glorious Cause, my ass. You just like running around with guns and stuff, without actually having to get killed or dysentery or whatever."

"Yeah, so what? You love putting on hoopskirts and crap and flouncing around all la-de-dah all day."

"Yeah, so what?" I mimicked him. "I wish I could run around with a gun and shoot at people. That'd be more fun."

"If you'd only get into doing this with me, you could. You could portray a spy and carry smuggled blockade-run goods under your skirts. You could have a derringer hidden in your reticule and a stiletto in your garter, and -- "

"And what would you be?"

"I'd be a spy, too, of course. That's much more fun than just being a regular boring soldier."

"Union spy or Confederate spy?"

"Where do I live? Where do I work? Use your head, Cory."

"If you two don't mind -- " Scarlett finally interjected. We subsided. "I want to go. I don't care if you're both spies or soldiers or whatever you want to be. I want to see what -- what your people think it was like. I was here all during the siege; I left the night Atlanta fell. I already know."

"I know you know," I told her, quietly. "That's what I'm afraid of. Scarlett, are you sure it won't -- I mean, seeing it all, hearing the cannons and the noise and... Are you sure it won't upset you?"

"Cory, you're sweet to worry, but it's just play-acting. After living through the real thing, nothing a bunch of men in silly costumes could do will hurt me."

I had to concede her point. I just hoped she wouldn't think any of my costumes were too "tacky."

Of course I have a wardrobe of 19th century clothing; doesn't everyone? At least, everyone who is curator of a museum that works so closely with other southern historical sites with an antebellum focus. The big closet in my spare bedroom is filled with costuming -- good costuming, too, not cheap polyester Halloween-party junk. All of my dresses, both those for use at the Mansion and the war-era stuff, were made for me specifically, to my measure and to my specification; you will absolutely NEVER see me anywhere, at any time, frothing with pink synthetic lace and looking like a prom date gone wrong. Linens and cottons and silks are the order of the day, and in the brighter colors worn by ladies past their first youth; pastels were for young belles only. I even have appropriate mourning attire, though I tend not to wear it that often. Black fabric plus the multiple layers of undergarments plus the heat and humidity of Georgia equals immediate heatstroke.

The three of us trooped up to my quarters and into the back room, where I then opened the closet and began rummaging through. Here the box of corsets, chemises, stockings, petticoats. There a box containing hats, gloves, bonnets, reticules. Garment bags stuffed with day dresses, tea dresses, work dresses, evening gowns, ball gowns. Boxes with shoes and slippers. 

In short, the secret stash of a grownup tomboy with hardly a traditionally feminine bone in her body but a sublime weakness for the female finery of bygone days. Go figure.

I opened one of the bags and began laying out dresses on every available surface. Scarlett went immediately for a green plaid silk, elaborately trimmed in black soutache and fringe; her eyes lit up like a little girl's when she ran her hand lovingly over the fabric. 

"May I wear this one? It's so lovely. I had one very like it when I was a girl."

"Of course you may. There's a hat trimmed to match in that box over there, and gloves too."

"Which one will you wear?" 

I turned my attention back to the various choices, but the decision was made for me by Evan. He tapped me on the shoulder and dropped a bundle into my hands. "That," he said firmly.

"That" proved to be a combination gown, what the ladies of the time in their love of all things French called a "robe a la transformation." It was a paisley-patterned silk in shades of burgundy, black and forest, subdued and sumptuous at once. I'd not yet had a chance to wear it; but what better time than the present?

"That," I agreed, smiling over my shoulder at him. Perhaps this would be fun after all.

Of course the real fun would lie in getting and keeping our stories straight. After prying her out of my wardrobe, I had to sit "Cousin Charlotte" down for a good hour and grill her on her particulars. It was worse than trying to concoct a believable living history persona.

"Now, if anyone asks, who are you?"

"I'm Charlotte Buchanan, your cousin."

"Too right you are. And what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a store manager and mother of three."

"What kind of store?"

"Upscale boutique," she said, faltering only slightly over the unfamiliar words.

And so it went, until I was convinced she knew her part sufficiently well to pass. It was unlikely that she'd be quizzed too closely; I knew the reenactment crowd well enough to know that who you are in Real Life was rarely of any concern during an event. If you had a persona -- i.e., took on a character for the weekend and interacted with others as such -- they wanted to know about it; otherwise, the primary concerns were with clothing and accoutrements. The Authenticity Police were quick to leap upon newbies, ready to pronounce sentence over incorrect fasteners or improper materials. I'd gotten busted at my very first event for wearing the wrong dancing slippers at the evening ball -- my pretty French-heeled numbers were  
appropriate to the Mansion's time, but couldn't pass for the flat-heeled kid leather slippers that were de rigeur in the early days of the war.

There would be no quibbles with the uniform Nazis this year, not with my own arbiter of style close at hand. Scarlett had already given my wardrobe a thorough inspection and pronounced it very acceptable and authentic to the period, and I considered her an expert in the field. I couldn't wait to see what she'd make of some of the other participants' ensembles. Not everything considered "appropriate" by reenactors could by any stretch of the imagination also be called "historically accurate."

Saturday dawned clear and bright and warm, as fine weather as one could ask. Evan was at my door promptly at eight -- oh, ungodly hour to be awake and alert! -- with a bag of custard-filled donuts in one hand and all his gear in a duffle bag. He breezed in, handing the donuts to a pleased Scarlett and tossing his bag over the back of my sofa, startling Foo into full fluff. He scooped her up and soothed her back to her usual sleekness.

"Should we dress before we go, or change once we get there?"

"I don't mind changing in the parking lot, but I doubt Scarlett would be comfortable with that. What do you want to do?"

"I was going to go in civvies, but I hate trying to drive in those damned tall boots." He peered down at his feet, as if expecting to see the offending objects having materialized there already. "I can put on the trousers and shirt now, then put on the boots and the coat and stuff once we get there."

"Yeah. I guess I can get partially dressed here, but get into the hoops and all the big stuff there. I -- " I started to speak to Scarlett, but stopped when I saw the look of absolute horror on her face. "What's the matter?"

"You'd appear half-dressed in public?" Bless her heart, she was scandalized. I couldn't help laughing.

"Scarlett, by your standards I'm probably half-dressed in public more often than not. All summer long I go around in t-shirts and shorts! Good lord, girl, I'll have on more layers of stuff in the parking lot than I usually wear all day."

"I know, but... well, only a -- " and here she whispered, " -- a bad woman would be seen in her shimmy by a man not her husband!"

"Well, I must be pretty awful, then. Evan here's seen me in worse than that. Am I a bad woman, Evan?"

"Oh, the absolute worst. They've reserved a whole section of Hell just for you. Give me those donuts, Scarlett, you're squishing them. If you want to get dressed here so as not to offend anyone's delicate sensitivities or to protect what reputation you have -- " I stuck my tongue out at him -- "then go right ahead. You can both cram into the back seat of my car, hoops and all."

Two full-sized cage crinolines in the back seat of a Mazda. Uh-huh. "I'll just leave off my hoop until we get there," I said firmly. They fold down nice and flat, you know, perfect for stowing in the trunk. "But the rest of it I'll put on here. Scarlett, you can help me with my stays."

She looked a bit embarrassed by her outburst, but hid it pretty well. "Yes, and I'll do your hair for you too, if you like."

Dressing with Scarlett was another adventure. To begin with, she was appalled by how loosely, in her estimation, I wanted to be laced.

"Oh, that's like not even wearing stays!" she cried out, once my natural 28-inch waist had been neatly compressed to my preferred 26 inches. "I could lace you down at least another two or three inches!"

"I'm sure you could," I huffed, yanking the dangling laces from her hands and tying them securely before she set out to do me irreparable harm. "But then my dresses wouldn't fit properly and I'd be very uncomfortable. I wasn't trained to corsetry from childhood the way you were."

I could tell she was annoyed that I wouldn't lace her down any more tightly, but she kept a lid on that, too; she understood the importance of a proper fit, and bitched no further once she'd got into the dress. It was lovely on her, I had to admit. The green enhanced her eyes dramatically. She preened before the pier glass while I watched, amused.

Hair styling was no more fun for me than the corseting. In my life, there are two hairstyles: up and down. What she had in mind involved all manner of complex, tortuous loops and curls and swags and knots, innumerable pins stabbing and jabbing me every which way, and my thick, obstinate hair utterly refusing to bend to her will. My squirming and cursing didn't assist her, either.

"Cory, hold still!" She caught hold of my head with one strong little hand, turned it sharply as a chiropractor and rammed in a final pin, bringing tears to my eyes. "There!" she pronounced, and stood back to admire her work. Her expression was one of some consternation.

"What?" I demanded, certain that I had to look completely ridiculous. She shook her head, smiling a little.

"Why, Cory, you're actually pretty!"

"Thanks," I said sarcastically, stung. Did that mean she thought I was hideous the rest of the time? I know I'm no beauty, but jeez. She shook her head.

"You usually don't do anything to fix yourself up," she explained. "But look!"

Scarlett turned me around and aimed me at the mirror; and I have to admit, she had a point. The woman looking back at me with wide, startled eyes was not the one I usually face each morning. This one had shining dark hair arranged elegantly atop her head, a crisscross of braids and cascading locks to the sides. Her skin glowed against the color of her dress, and she looked rather more poised and confident than the harried, hurried curator I knew myself to be. This morning, for a time, I would also be someone else. My reflection was smiling, and so was I.

The real test, however, was when we left the bedroom and rejoined my associate in the kitchen. The look on his face was sufficient -- that, and the fact that he dropped a half-eaten donut without even noticing. 

I was starting to think there might actually be something to this girly stuff, after all. 

The Georgia International Horse Park, where the event was held, is a lovely site -- clean and modern, with flush toilets (the reenactor’s best friend) and running water and plenty of green spaces. Upon arrival we were greeted with the sight of row upon row of neat tents, everything from tiny military wedges to enormous canvas pavillions, presumably housing high ranking officers. Grey uniforms predominated, which is far from unusual; the romantic glow that surrounds Our Brave Boys In Grey even now makes it a difficult thing to get enough Union portrayals at these events. It was early in the day yet, and the smells of cook fires and coffee brewing were pungent and provocative. We were among the first spectators to arrive, though dressed as we were, we blended right in.

Scarlett's initial enthusiasm waned almost immediately. Apparently, I had my own member of the Authenticity Police, for her criticisms were intense and all-encompassing.

"Look at them all!" She accused, sweeping her hand across our field of vision. "If we'd had THAT many soldiers, we'd have won the war!"

"Nobody wants to be a damn Yankee," Evan said cheerfully. He was resplendent in civilian attire, the garb of a well-off gentleman not unlike the redoubtable Captain Butler: white linen trousers, elegant shirt, varnished black boots. Evan rarely wore military garb to events, despite his professed desire to shoot at things; civilian clothing was more fun, and I think he enjoyed the role of dashing rogue. I have to admit, he was certainly easy on the eyes as he strutted by my side. I wasn't sure if the envious glares I was receiving from ladies along the way were directed toward my luxurious garb or my attractive escort. I hoped both.

"And they're all too fat," she added, her censorious glance taking in a particularly well-fed rebel feasting on what appeared to be a bacon-and-hardtack sandwich, if such a thing were possible. "We didn't have enough to eat by the time they took Atlanta. Even when you could lay hands on food, the prices were sky-high and nobody had any money, either. Our soldiers were starving -- I should know, I nursed enough of them in hospital and they were skinny as sticks, the lot of them. Most of these men look like they've never missed a meal in their lives."

"I don't suppose there are too many guys who go on starvation diets to achieve a proper period look," I mused.

"The ladies, either," was Scarlett's catty reply. "And good heavens, look at how many of them are going about completely unstayed! And big as houses! If a lady were seen out of doors looking like that -- " and here she indicated a stout matron in nothing but skirt and chemise, not even a wrapper to cover her, "she'd have been arrested for indecency! I thought you said people were trying to recreate what it was like in my time, not make a public spectacle of themselves!"

"There are degrees of authenticity," Evan said. "Not everyone achieves a very high degree, unfortunately."

"Why do people do this?" She demanded, rounding suddenly and stopping Evan and I both in our tracks to avoid slamming into her. "What is the point? They're dressing up and sleeping in tents and playing with cannons, but what are they accomplishing? They don't know what it was like to be there. I don't claim to know what it was like on the battlefield, but -- well, I know it wouldn't have been like this. It was nothing but death and disease and misery, and that's something they'll never know -- not the way we knew it, not the way we lived it." A soldier strolling past doffed his cap at her, and she flashed a smile at him so quickly it had to be an autonomic response. Her scowl returned the moment he was past. "People are such fools," she continued bitterly. "This town was under siege. It was occupied by enemy forces. When I left Atlanta at the height of the siege, it seemed like the whole world was on fire. I still see those fires in my dreams. I think I always will."

I looked around me: at the neat rows of tents, the vendors' establishments with pretty dresses and battle flags waving gaily in the breeze, at the costumed participants scurrying about, at the spectators with their soft drinks and event schedules. There were no clouds of smoke hanging overhead. The cannons were silent. Nothing was on fire. All was safe and secure, sanitized and serene. All of us would go home after the event, put on our Levis and t-shirts and turn on the TV, and war would once again be relegated to other countries and other times, just as it had always been for most of us. I'd never known the sound of gunfire in the night, nor seen the reddish glow on the horizon that spoke of cities in flames. I could imagine it, but that was far from having lived it. No wonder Scarlett was bitter. I would've been, too.

"You evacuated during the siege?" Evan asked. I had already heard some of the tale, from our marathon discussion the other night, but he had not been present for it. She nodded.

"Yes. Most everybody else I knew had already left by  
then, but I -- Melly was too near her time and too sick to be moved, so I stayed with her." Linking her arm through mine, Scarlett steered us out of the path and under an enormous cottonwood tree where she might better spin her tale. "The town was practically deserted -- of decent folk, anyway. There were plenty of them around. My aunt Pitty -- " 

"Miss Hamilton," I supplied, and Evan nodded.

"She had gone down to Macon a week or so before, to stay with her Burr cousins there. All of our people had already gone back to Tara, except for my maid, and my little boy was with us. Oh, I wanted so badly to be home! It was horrible, worse than you can possibly imagine. All day and all night, the explosions -- I thought it was the Yankees but a lot of it was our boys, firing stores of ammunition so the Yankees couldn't get it and use it on us. The night we left, they blew up most of the depot -- there were so many boxcars full of munitions and they'd already cut off the railroad lines out of town, so there was nowhere for it to go. 

"That's what they did -- they cut us completely off. All the railroad lines met here at Five Points, and with them cut off, the town had to fall to them. No one believed they could do it, but they did it. They could do anything they wanted to. And what they wanted was to control Atlanta, and the railroads." 

"So you stayed until Mrs. Wilkes had her baby," Evan prompted, bringing her back from her reverie. "How the Hell did you get out? I've always wondered. The whole place must have been ringed around with Yankees by then."

"It was. I sent Prissy -- my maid -- I sent her out to look for Rhett. I knew if anybody in town had or could get a carriage, Rhett could. And he did! He stole a horse, the sorriest looking animal I have ever seen, and an old farm wagon and came and got us all. We refugeed north to Tara that night, even though to do so we had to go right through where they'd been fighting for days. I didn't care. I wanted to go home. I wanted my mother."

She had only touched upon these events during our long conversation; I had known, for instance, that she'd left Atlanta during the siege, but not the particulars of her escape. I hadn't known that Rhett Butler had stolen a horse and buggy to help her effect said escape, nor that he'd driven her right through the Yankee lines to get her home. That shed a slightly different light on the man, and made me not want to smack him quite so hard. For the moment, at least. 

Evan was entranced, hanging on her every word. "But, wasn't your mother -- ?" He didn't finish the question, nor did he have to. She nodded, eyes suddenly shining.

"She was dead by the time I got home, and Pa -- well, he was never right again after that. The cotton was gone, all the outbuildings were burned but one barn and part of the quarters, everything of value that they could carry they had taken, but the house was still standing and that was enough. That was all I had left. My sisters were sick with the typhoid, Melanie was nearly dead, and Rhett had abandoned me... "

"Abandoned you? But he got you home, didn't he?"

"He got us as far as the turn to Tara off the Jonesboro Road, and then he left. He went off to join the army. Said he had a weakness for lost causes, once he knew they were really lost. I almost never forgave him for that."

But he had gotten her safely home, and that said something. Suddenly very uncomfortable, I pulled my event schedule from my reticule and examined it. Artillery demonstrations? No. Ladies' sewing circle? Boring. Field hospital demonstrations? Out of the question. Scarlett had told me about her experiences of nursing; something told me watching faux surgeons with trays full of raw liver and stuff wouldn't exactly go over well with her. "We shouldn't have come," I said, throwing a hard look at Evan. "I'm sorry, Scarlett."

"It doesn't matter," she said, quietly. "Nothing anyone here does can take away what I've seen. I just wonder why they want to remember it. I'd give anything to be able to forget."

"'Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it,'" I quoted. "Maybe we need to remember. Maybe people don't remember enough."

"It's not that they don't remember, it's that they don't learn," Evan murmured. "Or maybe it's just that they remember the wrong things."

"Men are fools," Scarlett declared with venom. "They think they can have peace by starting wars. There'll never be peace. People won't let there be peace."

I was afraid she was right. "Come on," I urged, "let's get out of here." But to my surprise, she dug in her heels.

"No. I spent all that time learning how to be somebody else, I don't want to go yet. Aren't you going to introduce your Cousin Charlotte around?"

And Gods help us, we did.


	10. Chapter 10

As the days grew shorter and colder we began preparing the Mansion for its long winter's nap. Because we are not the state's first priority, and because it is expensive to heat and staff an enormous, largely un-modernized building even through the relatively mild north Georgia winter, we go into a sort of hibernation mode after Christmas, cutting back our hours and our staff. We have our Victorian Christmas celebration, the last big blow-out of the year, and from then until the end of March we're open by appointment only, usually for school and other group tours. Only Evan and I work full-time through the winter; even our maintenance guy is relegated to on-call status. 

Although I dislike cold weather and the absence of green, I enjoy Mansion winters; following the frenetic activity of the season between Halloween and Christmas, it's a welcome respite, time to rest and regroup and start planning for the next year's events. Evan and I work well together in isolation, and in fact it was during our first winter at the Mansion that our friendship bloomed over and above our working relationship -- at first because there was no one else to talk to, but it soon developed that there was hardly anyone else we'd rather talk to. Lucky me: my assistant turned out also to be my best friend, and later my magickal partner-in-crime as well. 

And as the weather turned, my thoughts turned as well, in directions I'd carefully schooled them away from for the past several years; but fortunately there was Scarlett to distract me, and keep me from dwelling on the changes in the atmosphere. She was the best sort of distraction, an interesting and useful one. Our Victorian Christmas would be our most lavish, and authentic, ever.

"We don't decorate the upper floors," she assured me, "except for putting a small tree in the nursery. All the entertaining's done downstairs. Well, except for last Christmas; we didn't really do much. Rhett was away and... well, we just didn't. Our first Christmas in the house, and then for Bonnie's first Christmas, we had parties, and oh! You should have seen the house then, Cory! There were swags of evergreen boughs on every mantle, and ropes of it wrapped in red velvet ribbons twisted around the bannisters all the way up to the landing, and medallions on every chandelier and sconce in all the public rooms on the main floor..." She was darting here and there, pointing, remembering, and I was scampering after her with a clipboard, taking frantic notes. "We put the tree in here, in the formal parlor; the first one we had in here was absolutely enormous. The ceiling in here is 16 feet and with the star on top, it almost touched it. There were so many candles on it Rhett swore we'd burn the whole place down before the night was over, but it was so lovely! And then in the dining room..."

And so it was that, rather than attempt to decorate the entire house, as had been our wont in previous years, we focused our attention on the main floor only and left the rest of the house in its ordinary state. We hauled out the holly and decked the halls; we put up bough after bough, much of it real, twisted through with ribbons of red and gold, we hung bells and tinsel, sweet gilt-cardboard cutouts, fine and fragile glass ornaments, and of course candles and more candles on every available surface. (Many of them were of the faux, LED kind, but we put up as many real ones as we dared. We laid in an extra store of fire extinguishers, too, just in case.) Scarlett and I sat up one evening stringing popcorn and cranberry chains to decorate the children's tree for the nursery (the only decoration in the "private rooms" of the house), and another making pomander balls of plump oranges and spikes of cloves. And when we were done, the house sparkled, and the spicy-sweet scents of the season were for real and not from a spray can. 

The holiday open house was held the weekend before Christmas, which was actually the weekend of the winter solstice. It's the second biggest draw of our year -- only the haunted tours bring in more people -- and this year was no exception. The weather gods obligingly gifted us with a rare dusting of snow, making it a picture-perfect Victorian Christmas. Every last one of our volunteers turned out, and most of them were more than happy to garb up and try their hands at first-person interpretation. 

Evan and I, however, were not. Always in the past we'd taken on the roles of Mr. and Mrs. Butler, the lord and lady of the manor; but this year, with Mrs. Butler herownself there in the flesh, and with a certain new -- or at least newly evident -- undercurrent pulling between us, neither of us were particularly eager to don the fancy clothes and waltz the night away pretending to be the allegedly happy newlyweds. Scarlett noticed my discomfiture and needled me until I gave it up; and when I told her, face flaming, of Christmases past, she absolutely roared with laughter.

"I don't see what's so funny," I huffed, turning my back on her. "We've always done first-person interpretation in the personas of you and Rhett."

"Dressing up and pretending to be me and Rhett! Oh, Cory, I don't mean to laugh at you, but it's just so funny! Who'd want to be like us?"

"Hmmm. Fabulously rich and really, really good-looking? Yeah, who'd want to be like that?"

"Yes, that's true," she said seriously, "but -- well, you know, being rich and good-looking isn't everything."

I snorted. "Right. Did you think up that platitude all by yourself or did you hear it on TV?"

"You needn't be rude to me, Miss High-and-Mighty!"

"You're right; I needn't." I turned back around to face her with a sigh. "Being you and Rhett wasn't so wonderful, was it?"

"No, it isn't." She sat down on the edge of the bed in the servant's room we were using for a changing room. "Oh, we put on a good face in company, and I suppose that at times it was even sort of true -- that first Christmas here, perhaps, anyway. I know we look good together, and we have the nicest clothes and the nicest house in town, and God knows Rhett's certainly charming enough when he has an audience. It's when there's no audience, and it's just us, that it all falls apart."

"Was it always that way? I mean, I'm having trouble understanding." I presented my back to her again, partly so she could lace my corset and partly to spare her having to look me in the face while talking about difficult subjects. "I don't know how much time you two spent alone in each other's company before you were married, probably not much, but -- it just seems to me like, if things had been as rotten between you before you were married as they are now, you wouldn't have gotten married."

"No, we wouldn't have." A particularly sharp tug at my laces nearly rocked me off my feet, and I braced myself harder. "If I'd known how it was going to turn out, I wouldn't have married him for anything in the world. Not even for all this money. I didn't need it. We used to be friends, Cory, real friends; but it started going downhill after we moved into the house here, and then after Bonnie -- and after we -- I mean, after I..."

"So you gained a fortune, and a house and a daughter, and lost your closest friend." I picked up my bustle from the bed and tied its strings round my waist. Scarlett, still seated, looked up at me with hollow eyes and nodded.

"Yes, and it only gets worse from here, doesn't it? Because I'm going to lose the house, and my daughter, and Melly, and even the pretense that Rhett gives a damn about me. So I'm -- oh, what's that word you use?"

"'Screwed'?" I suggested. She nodded again.

"Yes, that's right. I'm screwed -- either way, I'm screwed! If I go back, if I could go back, you know what happens there; but even if I stay, I've still lost everything, because it's all there and I'm here. So it doesn't matter what I do."

"Sure it matters. It always matters. Scarlett, there's still a chance that, if we could get you back to your time, you could change things; that's why we're working with you, so that if you do get back you'll remember what happened here, and can maybe alter the outcome of your life. And even if you can't go back, and you're stuck here, well, it's possible that you could build a life for yourself here in our time. It'd be difficult, but not impossible -- and you would have friends who'd help you."

For that she hugged me briefly, fiercely, then moved to help me drop the heavy skirt of my claret-colored watered silk gown over my head and into place. "I know that, and I hope you know that I appreciate it; I really do. But what if I -- went back, and remembered all this, but still couldn't change anything?"

"Then I guess nothing would change. Even though everything had." Unconsciously I pressed my hand hard against my forehead, a gesture which made her suddenly burst into unexpected giggles. "What?"

"You. This is making your brain hurt again, isn't it?"

"It certainly is. Button this bodice up for me, would you? We've got a party to get through and neither one of us is remotely presentable yet."

"Whatever you say, ‘Mrs. Butler’," she replied saucily, ducking behind me and fastening my buttons with deft little fingers. When I went to swat her she easily evaded me, scrambling over and across the bed and coming up on the other side with her -- that is, my -- moss-green plaid dress in hand.

It was a much more decorous pair of ladies who descended the stairs a few minutes later to meet the rest of the staff and volunteers in the basement office. As I had done before at Tara, I was now passing her off as my visiting cousin with my own staff; and since I wouldn't be seeing any of them until the spring after today (by which time I hoped the situation would be resolved, one way or another), I wasn't that concerned about it. I'd lectured her long and hard and was satisfied that she knew her role. The only real issue was whether or not anyone would notice or remark upon her striking resemblance to the former mistress of the mansion; but frankly, my people weren't terribly observant most of the time, and a face in motion looks much different than the same face in repose. My theory was borne out when we entered the office and Keira, one of the volunteers, looked up from her perusal of a photo of Mrs. B. right into the face of the lady herself, and only smiled and greeted her as "Charlotte." Grinning, I told her to lose her farby modern earrings (all ten of them) and sent her on her way.

After a quick briefing, I dispersed them all to their places, salted around in various rooms acting like party guests. "Charlotte," of course, I kept with me. Everyone else had already departed when Evan finally appeared, looking like a young Professor Snape in his elegantly cut black tailcoat, slim trousers and polished black boots. He offered one arm to me and one to Scarlett and, thus linked, we processed up the back stairs, down the servants' hallway, and eventually by means of a discreet door into the front section of the house. Smoothing down my hair and skirts, I unlocked the front door and relinquished its operation to a volunteer dressed in footman's attire. And then I prepared to mingle.

"It went well today, don't you think?"

It was evening, just past dark, and the day's open house had given way to the night's dance party -- $35 a head, period dress please, complimentary champagne and hors d'ouevres, live music, dance master on hand. Evan was waltzing me competently around the grand ballroom, holding me rather more closely than would have been appropriate in times past, presumably so that our conversation could be heard above the music and the chatter. 

"Yeah, it did. The house looked gorgeous, didn't it?"

"You and Scarlett did a wonderful job decorating."

"We had help," I pointed out. 

"Where is she, by the way?"

I tilted my head toward a rear corner where I'd last seen her, surrounded by admirers, laughing and dimpling and generally behaving like the belle of the ball. Evan grinned.

"She's something, isn't she?"

I felt a little twinge at his words. "Yeah, but don't forget she's a married something."

"Not jealous, are you?"

"Of what? Scarlett and her posse back there? If I got jealous of every woman who attracted more male attention than I do, I'd never have a spare moment. I was just warning you not to get too attached to her, that's all."

"I'm already attached," he murmured, and his voice was so close to my ear and his breath so warm on my neck that I started involuntarily. Coupled with the sudden sinking in the pit of my stomach, it made for an interesting set of sensations. I turned my head slightly, sickeningly sure my face would betray me, and tried for a light tone.

"I know; I'm attached to her, too. She's like the sister I never had. But we can't -- I don't think we can keep her here, but I'm not sure we can get her home, either."

Evan relaxed his grip on me slightly and started steering me away from the dance floor. It was nearing the end of the party and already some of the guests were departing; the hors d'ouevres were mostly gone and the champagne was little more than a memory (save for the bottle I'd secreted away for our later consumption when we toasted the solstice). Once we reached the edge of the dancing I pulled away from him and exited the room, walking out into the grand foyer. Save for Jerry, the evening's footman, and a tight little knot of visitors chattering together, it was deserted, and I made my way unobstructed to the front door and out. Evan was not far behind me.

Snow was swirling down from a pewter sky softly illuminated by the lights of the city all around us; and though it couldn't have been much above freezing, the air felt good on my overheated skin. I was feeling sweaty and sticky and out of sorts, for some reason, and close proximity to Evan had only made it worse. What I was feeling I couldn't have told you, but it had left me slightly sick, slightly sad, wanting an escape. Breathing deeply of the cold, I grasped one of the turned wooden support posts of the porch and leaned against it, looking out across the lawn and down to the street below. The snow was starting to stick; the road already looked glassy and slick beneath the streetlights.

Evan came up behind me, stopping so close I could feel the warmth radiating from him. "Are you all right?" He asked quietly.

"Yeah," I exhaled. "Just tired; it's been a long day."

"Are you going to be up to having a solstice rite tonight?"

"I – I don't think so. It's going to take a while to get things cleared away after the party, and -- "

"We can clean up tomorrow, you know. It doesn't have to be tonight."

How to tell him that the thought of being in the confined, intimate space of a ritual with him and Scarlett tonight was more than I could suddenly bear? There were no words for that -- none that would make any sense, anyway, to him or to me. "I know," I replied, not turning around. "But I just... can't. Not tonight. Tomorrow."

"Sure. Tomorrow." I felt the warmth recede, knew he was turning to go back inside the house; but then he stopped, and a moment later was by my side, his arm back around me and his lips near my ear again.

"What I said? About being attached? I meant that." And then with a swooping stride he was gone, back into the house, the door crashing shut behind him. Snape couldn't have done it better. I found myself shivering, and it wasn't from the cold.

I might have stood out there like a besotted idiot for the remainder of the night had not the door popped open again a few moments later and a small, cloaked figure darted out, scuttled past me and disappeared into the shadows at the side of the house. Grumbling, I scooted back inside, fetched my wrap from the hall tree, and hurried out after the person. The last thing I needed was visitors wandering around the grounds in the dark and the snow; should they fall and injure themselves, it was my ass in the figurative sling. I rounded the north wing, skirted alongside the building, looked and did not see the person again until at last a flash of motion far off in the back yard alerted me: they'd gone down to the gazebo. Cursing in earnest now, I skidded down the expanse of lawn in my impractical period-appropriate shoes, and was all ready to give them a healthy piece of my mind when a sound caught my ear that brought me up short: sobbing.

Cautiously, I approached the gazebo. "Hello? Are you all right in there?"

More sobs, then a big snuffle and a "Cory, is that you?"

"Scarlett?"

I sat down on the bench beside her. "Hey. What's wrong? Did something happen in there?"

She gave another enormous sniff and scrubbed her hands against her eyes like a child. "I was just... thinking back, to our first Christmas here. Before Bonnie was born and before everything... And I'd been watching you and Evan dancing, and you looked so happy, and I remembered dancing with Rhett like that and I just... Oh, god, what am I going to do?" And she burst into tears anew.

I sat there, stunned right out of my own misery. "Oh, my God. You are in love with him." The revelation made her cry even harder. She didn't even try to deny it, just toppled over against me and wept and wept. I put an arm around her and let her have it out, and when she'd subsided sufficiently I gathered her up and led her back to my carriage house, settled her inside with a stiff drink and a promise of a quick return, then high-tailed it back to the main house as fast as my slippery-slippered feet would carry me. My emotional problems forgotten, I hunted Evan down, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him with me into a convenient alcove. He stared at me like he'd never seen me before.

"What?"

"We're on for tonight after all."

"What? Why?"

I felt my jaw harden, along with my resolve. "Because we have to go in after Mr. Rat Butler so we can knock their damned heads together, that's why. We've got to end this."

He nodded, took my hands in both of his. "So mote it be." 

Midnight. Solstice-night.

The dance had officially ended at nine, though of course it was well past that before we'd managed to shepherd all the guests and volunteers out. Expecting that we would observe the holiday, Evan had brought all his gear with him when he'd come to work earlier; as soon as everyone was out and we'd hastily packed away the remains of the perishables, he grabbed his bag and disappeared into the Mansion's only functioning full bathroom, the one left over from the days when the curator's apartment was located in the servants' wing. I returned to the carriage house where I found Scarlett, freshly showered and wrapped in my bathrobe, parked on the sofa with Foo in her lap and a mulish expression on her face.

"You didn't use all the hot water, did you?"

"No, there's plenty for you."

"Are you feeling better? It's solstice tonight, you know, and we've got some, um, work we want to do."

"Do we have to do it tonight? Can't we wait till tomorrow?"

"No, it'd be best to do it tonight. Evan's up at the house right now getting ready. I just want a quick shower myself. Have you eaten anything?"

I had not, of course, shared with her precisely what kind of work I had in mind for tonight; coming as it had in a burst of inspiration, I'd made no plans and really had only the barest idea of what, precisely, I intended to do. That Evan was in agreement and would be my willing accomplice was enough; and while Scarlett's cooperation would be helpful, I didn't think her active participation would be required. Previously, the depth of her emotions had been sufficient for me to draw upon, and I was counting on that being the case again -- with, perhaps, an added bonus coming from the elusive and infuriating Captain Butler, whom I pictured stewing in his own juices in the way-back-when, frothing over with grief and guilt.

Dammit, he'd better be frothing. If he wasn't yet, he would be by the time we were done with him.

Would it work? Could we do it? There was no earthly, rational reason why it'd worked the first time, so there was no way I could guarantee a sequel. It's rare, but not unheard-of, for lightning to strike the same place twice. Perhaps it would for us, too.

When I came out of the shower, I found her in the exact same position I'd left her in, and her very immobility suggested to me that she was both embarrassed by her earlier outburst and fretting over the unpleasant realization of her own feelings for her husband. And I'd thought I was a clueless mess when it came to relationships! This poor girl was repressed, obsessed -- all of those "ess" words -- and it was obvious that she wasn't going to find her way out of it alone. Here or there, my time or her own, the person her world and her life had made of her was not equipped to break free, to reach out; and from what I knew of her husband, it appeared that he was in the same boat. Whether it was cowardice, emotional retardation, or just an accumulation of toxic life experiences at fault, the end result was the same: these two would go on hurting each other until the chain of unthinkable events that had at last sundered them began, and then everything would come toppling down like dominoes, one thing after the other, until there was nothing left for either of them.

And there I stood, thinking my mojo was sufficient to vanquish fate. But I knew I had to try.

While she watched me, wordless, I bundled together the things we'd be needing that weren't already in place in the tower room, books and candles and tools and such. The spare bottle of champagne, commandeered from the party, was already up at the house in Evan's care, but I snagged a Tupperware bowl of gingerbread cookies and added that to my bag as well. I fed Foo while Scarlett located shoes and jacket; then I too bundled up, shouldered my bag, locked up the carriage house and we were off, to whatever would be.

We entered a house still warm and fragrant and oddly welcoming. Lights had been left on for us in the foyer and the second-floor hallway, enabling us to find our way easily to the door leading up to the tower room. Once inside we found the space already prepared, candles lit, incense burning -- even the talking board was in place, just as I'd had it the night I brought Scarlett through. (Although it hadn't served its expected purpose that night, it had seemed to function as a focal point, a portal perhaps, so it seemed only right to include it in tonight's experiment.) Evan turned when I opened the door, coming across the room to take the bag from my nerveless fingers. His greeting was a light, not-quite-perfunctory kiss on my forehead. "Blessed be, Cory."

Thinking that I just might be, I returned the greeting in kind and pulled off my coat, tossing it onto a side chair near the door. Evan had pulled out all the stops for this one, letting his innate love of the dramatic have full rein. His under-layer was a robe of heavy, soft black linen, with long, belled sleeves and a full hood draped down in back, giving something of the impression of a demented university don. Over it he had draped a tabard of emerald brocade. Mystical symbols in silver and bronze hung from cords around his neck, and on his brow rested a coronet I'd seen on him only once before, set with a bronze Egyptian solar disk flanked on either side by sweeping silver wings. A wide silver cuff engraved with more symbols encircled his right wrist; large rings, set with scarabs in lapis and carnelian, decorated his hands. In short, he'd gone all out, obviously feeling the gravity of our undertaking. I could've kissed him.

Instead, I started pulling my accoutrements from my bag and adorning myself, for I too had brought out the best of the best. My robe was teal, the full sleeves and hood lined with deep purple; and what the colors may have lacked in seasonal relevance they more than made up for in opulence. I wore no over-robe or tabard, but I had plenty of jewelry: my own engraved silver bracelet, three fine necklaces of graduated lengths, more rings than I quite needed and of course, a crown of my own -- not my simple silver crescent circlet, but the one I only trotted out on occasions of highest ceremony, a wider silver band set with an enormous round rainbow moonstone, flanked on either side by silver crescents. I settled it carefully on my head, feeling it press against my third eye region; it felt warm, almost as if it were glowing. Satisfied, I turned to examine Scarlett.

For perhaps the first time in her life, Mrs. Butler was the very picture of understatement. She was attired simply in a flowing white silk robe trimmed at sleeves, neck and hem with embroidered silver knotwork. My usual silver circlet rested upon her shining dark head, and she wore no other jewelry save her ever-present ring. As I reached out and adjusted the crown, settling it firmly centered, she gave an enormous yawn, showing me just what she thought of our midnight revel. I laughed aloud.

"Can we please get on with this? I'm about to drop from exhaustion."

"I'm ready if you are. Evan?"

"As I'll ever be. Join me, m'lady?"

Evan held out his hand to me. I took it. Showtime.

I suppose to those not inclined to this sort of activity, the contortions we witchy types engage in for our art would look utterly ridiculous; in fact I'm sure of it. Quite often it feels ridiculous: the waving of knives, the chanting, the dancing around the circle, all the theatrics involved can sometimes seem the worst sort of play-acting, childish to the point of insanity. I'd have given it up as a bad joke long ago if it weren't for one very important fact: it works. The theatrics are in actuality a vital part of the process, not only for the purpose of creating the proper atmosphere (an exacting art in itself), but also for helping promote the necessary switch in consciousness away from the normal, mundane state and into that numinous realm that is the space between this world and what lies beyond. Once I'd internalized this knowledge, once I'd learnt it in my very bones, my self-consciousness dropped away and left me free to emerge. And then, magick began to happen.

We took our sweet time with the preparations and with the construction of the ritual space; for what we were attempting, it had to be just right. Scarlett, who had no clue what we were plotting, sat on the floor looking sublimely bored, her eyes periodically straying to the awaiting bottle of champagne. Having done this so many times, Evan and I had our choreography down pat, and the casting of the circle flowed almost effortlessly. If I closed my physical eyes I could see our creation taking shape: not so much a circle as a sphere, knitting itself together from nothingness into a finely woven web of glowing silver-blue strands enclosing us, enfolding us. At the four compass points, distantly, glowed another sort of light. Out beyond the silvered sphere was somewhere else entirely, a vast and featureless plain: the space between.

When all the preparatory work was complete, Evan and I seated ourselves, he on my right and Scarlett to my left. Linking hands, we fell into harmonious, measured breathing. This went on for a time, deepening, quickening, until at last something happened -- much as it had on another midnight when I'd received a most unexpected visitor -- I felt a weird tugging behind my eyes, felt even my altered consciousness skew sideways, and then a sense that some enormous machine was grinding slowly, painfully to life. And then, just as I had before, I was chanting, singing, invoking, the words coming from I knew not where, somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. There was a similar howling, keening sound, like rising storm winds; and behind my closed eyelids I could see the gray formless sweep of the Otherworld shifting, roiling, like steam rising off a turbulent sea. A sudden gasp from Scarlett, a tightening pressure of Evan's hand, told me they were seeing it too; and when I turned to look, not physically but with my other, inner vision, I saw them with me, either side of me, there.

The howling rose to an unbearable pitch, my voice rising along with it, no longer merely an incantation but a summons: and it was answered. A horrific crash as of thunder, deafening, the sound of sound opening up and collapsing back upon itself; Scarlett screamed and lunged forward; something hit the floor with enough force to make the entire room shake; Evan murmured an obscenity so foul even I wasn't quite sure what it meant; and then all went still.

Captain Rhett Butler -- multimillionaire blockade runner, eleventh-hour war hero, legend in his own time and beyond -- lay sprawled in a most undignified heap of silk dressing gown and rumpled trousers, smelling like a distillery and looking like something the cat would've refused to drag in. As we watched, owl-eyed and speechless, he levered himself upright and focused his eyes with apparent difficulty.

"Scarlett," he croaked.

"Rhett," she stammered.

And then he did the most extraordinary thing. 

"You're dead," he said, in a tone of absolute defeat. "You're dead, and I've killed you." And with that he slumped back to the floor in a dead faint.

Scarlett scrambled to his side, bouncing off the edge of the altar hard enough to leave a spectacular bruise on that delicate pale skin. I stayed in my place, rooted to the spot. Evan glanced from the Butlers, to me, then at nothing in particular. He looked almost indecently triumphant.

"Cool," he said, softly, and reached for the bottle of champagne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to those of you reading and reviewing and leaving kudos. I hope you're all staying safe and well, wherever you may be.


	11. Chapter 11

As November unfolded we began to settle into a routine, the three of us. Scarlett spent her days in the carriage house while I was working, mostly watching television, playing with the computer and reading. After we closed for the day and the rest of the staffers went home, she joined Evan and me in the house to plan for our evening's activities. 

We made an odd triumvirate. Evan and I tried to include Scarlett as much as possible, but it was difficult at times; after all, he and I had three decades of shared modern-life experience and five years' acquaintance between us. (There was perhaps something else between us as well, something neither of us were in a great rush to name but which seemed to be steadily growing stronger as the year continued toward its close.) She didn't get all of our in-jokes, which frustrated her greatly and often left her sulky and cross. We, in turn, didn't always understand what she was trying to articulate, using contemporary colloquialisms that were so much gibberish to us. The past truly is another country, foreign and fraught with pitfalls, and had we been thrust back into her time we'd have stumbled more than I would've previously thought possible, given our experience and education. For someone cast into the foreign country of the future, Scarlett did surprisingly well -- though I must give some credit for that to Evan and me. We were, I think, about as well-equipped as anyone could be to deal with such an occurrence.

Educating her in the ways of the modern world was a lot of fun, really, and she proved to be a remarkably quick and adaptable pupil. Her innate intelligence and curiosity shone through more strongly by the day. Each morning I sat her down with the Journal-Constitution along with her breakfast, and she devoured the current events along with her bacon and eggs. Thanks to the State I had cable in my apartment, so I encouraged her to watch news on television as well, but she preferred Discovery Channel and the like. Travel and history shows especially fascinated her.

"Did you and Rat -- um, Rhett travel a lot?"

"No. He took me to New Orleans for our honeymoon, which was grand, but after that we never went anywhere. Oh, he traveled plenty -- he was always going off someplace or another; sometimes he was gone for months. London, mostly, and Paris, but other places too. He never offered to take me and I never asked to go. I don't know why I didn't. It didn't occur to me, I guess. I had so much work to do with the store and the mills, you see."

"But didn't you want to see other places?"

"Not especially. Who cared what foreigners were doing so far away?"

"You little xenophobe! You look like you care plenty now."

"Well, it's more interesting if you can see pictures, in color, and see things moving and people doing interesting things. Now I wish that I could see the world."

"You are," I pointed out, waving my ice cream spoon at the TV, where presently a show about the splendors of China was playing. "Every day, right here in my living room. Already you've seen things that most people of your time could never even imagine. Think about that!"

She leaned over and, with a singular lack of concern, probed her own spoon into my Ben & Jerry's. "I know, but it's not the same as actually going there. Have you ever gone anyplace interesting?"

I hadn't, especially, but I told her about the states that I'd gone to and the things I'd seen there: Florida's beaches and Chicago's museums, the lights and excitement of Las Vegas. She listened raptly, which spurred me to greater heights of travelogue drama than I might have ordinarily achieved.

"I wish I could go to Las Vegas," she said wistfully. "It sounds wonderful."

"In your time it's barely a dot on the map. I don't think it really got rolling until the 1930s or so."

"Where was there good to visit in my time?"

I handed my ice cream pint over to her, since she seemed intent upon finishing it for me. "Now how would I know? You're the one that lives there, not me. Make RAT take you to London or Paris next time he goes. Or you could go to Ireland; you've probably still got living relations there. Hell, I don't know. With time and money at your disposal, you can go just about anywhere."

"I don't know. Sometimes I think Rhett only goes all those places to get away from me."

"Maybe it'd do you both good to get away -- together. You know, away from Atlanta and work and the kids and stuff. Like a second honeymoon."

"Our first honeymoon was fun," she admitted. "We went out every night -- dinner, dancing, the theatre, balls and parties and musicales... And during the day we went shopping and sight-seeing. Rhett was a very exciting person to be around back then. He knew so many interesting people and all of them made the biggest fuss over me! He seemed to like showing me off, like he was proud of me. Now it's like he wishes I was someone else."

"Perhaps, if you went away alone together, you could recapture some of how it used to be." I ached for her. She seemed so sad just then.

Scarlett stared pensively down into the melting remains of the Cherry Garcia, as if hoping to read her future in its depths. "You're assuming he'd even want to go -- and that I'll even go back there. I wish -- "

She broke off abruptly and resumed eating. Impatiently, I nudged her. "You wish what?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. Wishes aren't good for anything. What's on next?"

"'Futurama,'" I said firmly, flipping over to Cartoon Network. At least she wouldn't mope for a trip to the future; she was already there.

*******************************************************

Next full moon, Evan suggested we bail on our usual group and start Scarlett's esoteric education, a prospect I viewed with a mixture of delight and dread. Delight, because she was such a bright and eager pupil; dread, because she was superstitious as a savage and filled with all sorts of dogmatic nonsense characteristic of her era and the faith of her ancestors. She was a thoroughgoing little heathen, as spoiled and sybaritic a creature as her pirate's ill-gotten gains could make her, yet she still entertained more than her share of Catholic guilt -- which usually manifested as sudden qualms of conscience and a post-midnight certainty that the fires of hell awaited her for the numerous sins which she was all too eager to pursue in the light of day. Retraining her would be interesting, to say the least.

She'd already begun reading up on matters occult; I'd seen to that, placing tempting volumes in her way and making offhand comments about the contents. She'd already dismissed one book on summoning spirits as ridiculous; after all, I hadn't gone to all that trouble and I'd managed to conjure her up, so the writer had obviously to be completely wrong. The old time grimoires bored her, and she couldn't make heads or tails out of Crowley -- not surprising, since most people can't. The glossy coffee-table books on Wicca and neo-paganism she liked better, because of their pretty pictures; the girl had a raccoon's eye for bright and shiny objects, and I could tell she liked the idea of the candles and bells and incense all enticingly arranged. A big part of the magician's trade is atmosphere, after all. The content of these books confused her a bit, but at least didn't astound and horrify her as did some of the more hard-core traditional Wicca books. She came to me wide-eyed and appalled with one of said books, holding it open to the section on the "Great Rite" and demanding to know if she'd have to do THAT.

"God, no," I said, snatching the book away from her. "That’s very specific, upper-level work, and in our little group we don't do that kind of stuff. That's a different, um, denomination. You know, how the Catholic church isn't the same as the Episcopal church?"

"Yes..." She looked deeply mistrustful.

"It's the same with witches and pagans and stuff. There's a lot of different ways of doing things, a lot of different beliefs, and a lot of different groups and traditions and denominations."

"So what are you, then?" She took the book back from me, flipped a few pages back, and squinted at it. "Are you Gardner-arians? Or Alexandrians? Or -- Fairies?"

I laughed. "No, we’re not any of those things. There's not really a name for what we do in our group."

Which was not entirely true. There certainly were names for it -- all of them given by people who thought we should be doing something else, and all of them insulting. Our casual working group (which we did not refer to as a "coven") consisted of six individuals of disparate interests and abilities who chose to come together on occasion because we liked hanging out together and were able to have a sort of fellowship free of the kind of constraints imposed by more formally structured systems. None of us really fit in with the skulls-and-stangs crowd, having other colors in our wardrobes besides black; the trancey-channelly new age crowd sent us into fits of derisive laughter; the self-righteous activist types merely annoyed. Finding ourselves misfits among the misfits, we'd all eventually gravitated together, meeting as we had at various local festivals and shops whilst lurking at the fringes of the activity. We now numbered a semi-agnostic witch (that's me), a lazy ceremonialist witch (that's Evan), two Egyptian ritualists, one independent druid and one into-everything guy. It was a happy mixture. 

It was hard explaining all this to Scarlett, of course, when half the time even I couldn't quite explain it to myself. The "neo-pagan" movement did not exist in her day, although the romantics were already stirring up interest in things Celtic and the second wave of the Druidic revivals wasn't far off. By the end of the century Charles Leland would be meeting up with the Tuscan witches and publishing the possibly-apocryphal "Aradia," a text which would prove seminal to the development of the mid-century witchcraft movement in Britain and beyond. Randy old Gerald Gardner would hook up with the New Forest folk near the start of World War II and start assembling his own flavor of craft. All of it long past and before my time, and far away and after Scarlett's. I put on my historian/folklorist's hats and sat her down for a crash course.

She wasn't precisely religious, which could only work in our favor; her Catholicism went no more than skin-deep and apparently consisted of her doing something awful, feeling bad about it, then entering into a form of bargaining with God wherein she would promise to never do such a thing again if only He would grant her X favor. When X failed to materialize, she would then return to her wicked ways, and start the cycle afresh. This pattern was easy enough to spot after just a few conversations with her; she denied it heatedly and repeatedly when I first outlined it for her, only to later (after a bit of plying with alcohol) recant and admit that Rhett had said the exact same thing. The testimony of two independent witnesses a century apart had to carry some weight. I asked her point-blank if she believed in God, and she sputtered and stalled just as she had when Evan had asked her if she loved her husband. Well, at least she didn't suffer from the modern habit of analyzing herself to death.

"I don't know what I believe in, Cory. I never gave it much thought when I was growing up, and then, the war came, and it sure looked like if there was a God He wasn't on our side. How could I worship Someone who'd be so horrid and cruel? And Rhett certainly isn't religious, he thinks it's all funny. He used to take me to Mass sometimes and then make jokes the whole time -- then he'd take me to the theatre and tell me God wouldn't approve!"

"Your husband," I said severely, "is a freak."

"Yes, I know. But -- well, you're not going to make me believe in something silly, are you?"

"You can believe in anything you want -- or nothing at all, if it pleases you. Who am I to tell you what to believe? Who is anyone?"

"Oh, there's always someone to tell you that," she muttered. "What to believe, what to think, how to behave, how you should feel. That's all I've ever had my whole life. That was one of the things I liked best about Rhett at first -- he didn't do that! He encouraged me to think for myself and do just as I pleased."

So what had happened to turn this paragon into such an ass? Just the daily strain of being married to a woman in love with another man? Being kicked out of said woman's bedroom? I smelled another mystery. Perhaps it was one we'd be able to solve by means magickal.

"Well, while you're here we'll do the same, so don't bother to ask me for the secrets of the universe because I don't have them. Believe what makes sense to you and act accordingly. When the group meets, we have a set ritual structure that we perform, one that we've all agreed on; we acknowledge that there's Something greater than we are Out There somewhere, but we don't try to name it or define it or limit it in any fashion -- that's for each of us to decide for ourselves. You won't have to do anything special, or anything you don't want to do. I expect you'll eventually meet the rest of us."

"Have you told them about me yet?"

"No. We're saving that bit of information. If we can resolve this situation by ourselves, we won't have to bring the others into it."

"Resolve. You mean send me back, don't you?"

"I don't know what I mean. Scarlett, don't worry." I took her by the shoulders and looked deep into her troubled eyes. "I am in no hurry to send you anywhere, especially if you don't want to go, so relax. It took both of us to get you here, remember. I think it'll take us both to get you back -- or keep you here, either one."

A cursory knock sounded and my front door slammed open, spilling Evan and what looked like half a dozen bags into the room. "Right. Come on, then," I bade her, nudging her forward. "Let's get started."


	12. Chapter 12

Have you ever gotten what you thought you wanted, only to realize you had no idea what to do with it once you had it?

Yeah, it was like that.

Across the room, the man of the hour reposed, propped up by his wife, who stared at me with wide accusing eyes, wailing "Cory, what have you done?" As if that wasn't perfectly obvious. Beside me, Evan very calmly slit open the champagne's foil seal with his ritual knife, loosened up the wire cage, and with minimal difficulty worked the cork free. The noise apparently cut through our new guest's stupor, as he groaned and stirred in Scarlett's arms. 

"He's coming around," she hissed. "Give me a glass of that."

"I think he's had plenty to drink already," said Evan with a critical sniff. "He's half-embalmed as it is. There's a bottle of water under the altar, Scarlett; that's what he needs."

"I meant, give me a glass of that," was her impatient reply. Evan smiled and complied, then poured a gobletful for me and pressed it into my numb hands. I needed a drink, and badly, right about then. My expenditure of energy had been great, more draining than I'd realized; and worse than that, all my psychic centers were still wide open, lit up like Christmas trees. Alcohol is an excellent antidote, helping to bring you back down to earth and get you grounded again. I drank greedily and thought I could feel those little lights dimming, like an internal rheostat was being turned gently down. The jittery, overstimulated sensation began to dissipate, along with the numbness in my hands and feet. 

Rhett was fully awake now, for all that he was still catastrophically drunk, but he was at least sitting upright unassisted. Scarlett had scooted to a safe distance and was regarding him with a mixture of delight and dread. He had both hands over his face, fingers digging into his forehead and temples as though his brain hurt, too. Then he pulled them away abruptly and leveled his burning gaze on Scarlett, who started as though she'd been smacked.

"You're still here," he marveled. "Am I dead, too? Have I at last succeeded in drinking myself to death?"

"You're not dead," Scarlett sighed, dropping her eyes. "Neither am I. We're -- somewhere else. What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was in my room, stinking drunk, waiting for someone to come and tell me you'd died," he said bitterly. "At which point I was either going to continue drinking until it killed me, or put a bullet through my head. I hadn't quite decided which would be the more appropriate exit, you see." He paused for a moment, brow furrowed. "I must have blacked out; and when I came to, there you stood, glowing like a ghost -- for I know you could be no angel. Where are we, Scarlett? The tower?"

"Um, yes. Rhett, I have to tell you -- "

"I'm dreaming," he said, ignoring her. "I must be. Not only are you conscious and alert, you're exhibiting none of your usual contempt and loathing of me -- meaning this could only be happening in my wildest dreams."

"Oh, do stop!" she cried, exasperated. "You're not dreaming, and you're not dead, and I'm not either! Something's happened. I can't explain it, but it happened to me, and now it's happened to you, too. You're -- we're in a different place --"

"I can see that." He got slowly to his feet, Scarlett plucking helplessly at his sleeve; and drunk though he was, disheveled though he was, still he cut an imposing figure. He was tall, taller even than Evan's six feet, and powerfully built: broad of shoulder, narrow of waist and hip. Properly dressed and groomed, he would've been flat-out devastating. His pictures absolutely did not begin to do him justice.

Scarlett had turned THIS out of her bed? The girl was certifiable.

"Scarlett," he said, his voice mild, "would you mind telling me who the hell these people are and why the hell they are in my house?"

"Oh. Rhett, may I introduce Miss Constance Vinson (I fought the urge to curtsey) and Mr. Evan Winter? Cory, Evan, this is my husband, Rhett Butler."

Rhett bowed slightly, suave despite his situation, and looked at us both with one eyebrow lifted. "Indeed. Well, Miss Vinson, Mr. Winter, Scarlett -- it seems that you have me at a disadvantage. Would one of you care to explain this charade?"

Evan opened his mouth, but Scarlett silenced him with a look. Laying a shaky hand on Rhett's arm, she drew a deep breath and asked him, "When did I fall?"

His jaw tightened. "Two days ago."

"Two days," she repeated. "It's only been two days for you."

"What do you mean?"

"Rhett, for me it's been nearly two months. One minute it was June of 1871 and you -- well, I wanted so badly to escape, and then the next thing I knew I was here, and everything was changed. And now you -- you say you wanted to -- to die, and then you came here. Just like I did."

"Two months?" He frowned. "Scarlett, you're not making sense. I'm telling you, it is June 23rd, 1871; you've been abed for two days. Just what day do you think this is?"

I heard myself blurt out the date. The guest of honor actually snorted at me.

"Do you take me for a fool?"

YES, I wanted to shout, that and a few other things, but I restrained myself. "If you don't believe me, take a look out the window. Tell me that's June 23rd, 1871 out there." Unlike with Scarlett's arrival, I had no concern for his breaking the protective circle; it had all but imploded upon his grand entrance. Shaking off Scarlett's hand he pivoted and stalked over to one of the windows, flung it wide and leaned out into the night. A moment later he sagged visibly, and when he turned back to us his face had gone a sickly gray beneath its tan.

"What have you done?" He asked raggedly. Why did everyone keep asking me that?

Scarlett was biting her lip, on the verge of tears. Evan, I was starting to think, was in shock. Knowing things couldn't possibly get any weirder, I simply smiled and raised my glass: what else was there to do?

"Welcome to Christmas future, Captain Butler," I said, and drained the goblet dry. 

That quickly I found myself with three dependents, as no one else seemed inclined to move or speak or do much of anything besides stand there gaping like gaffed fish. Figuring that going all curatorial (or as some might say, bossy) was my best course of action, I started directing.

"Captain Butler, we can explain a bit of this situation to you, but I think you need a hot bath and some coffee first -- and perhaps something to eat, as well. Evan, could you show him to the bathroom in the servant's wing? And Scarlett, you can go and find him something to wear out of the volunteers' costumes -- don't look at me like that, you're a better judge of his size than I am! I'll go downstairs and get a pot of coffee started. All right?"

Scarlett stared from her husband, to me, back to him, then gave a little choked cry and fled the room. Evan coughed, took what he thought was a surreptitious slug of the champagne, then motioned toward the door. "Um, right, then. Captain Butler, if you'll follow me?"

He did, though with no good grace. Left alone, I put out the remaining candles and gathered up the things I didn't want to leave lying around overnight (the all-important wine bottle chief among them) and headed downstairs for the office. The house was dark, and quiet, and although shadows still haunted its high corners, shadows were all that were left; its principal ghosts were both present and accounted for now. I thought would never fear this house again.

I rinsed out the pot and got the Mr. Coffee going; then, finding myself alone and with nothing immediate to attend to, I collapsed into my desk chair and raised my bottle in a self-congratulatory toast. After all, I had succeeded beyond my wildest imaginings, not once but twice, had yanked two people across time and space, thereby ripping asunder the fabric of their lives, my life, Evan's life, and possibly Life As We Knew It. In the interval between Scarlett's arrival and now, I'd had little time to sit back and ponder the ramifications of what I'd done, being largely preoccupied with looking after her; but now, alone in the quiet office I couldn't help but think on things. 

Just sending her back to her time against her wishes had never been an option; for one thing, I wasn't sure my kung fu was sufficient to override her not-inconsiderable will, and for another, I just couldn't. I liked her, and respected her, too much. Scarlett and I, over the last two months, had become friends, real friends, and I could only hope now that she didn't perceive tonight's escapade as a betrayal. When I found her crying her heart out in the gazebo, and when she no longer bothered to deny the depth of her attachment to her husband, I knew there was nothing to do but pull an intervention: get them together (under supervision, of course) and see if they could be made, collectively, to get their heads out of their asses and save themselves. There was no guarantee that it would work, that it could work; perhaps their fates were sealed by some force far greater than anything I could ever hope to harness; but if there was even a chance that I could make a difference for her, I knew that I had to do it. 

As I believe I've said before, I really wanted the happy ending for her.

Evan came in a good twenty minutes later, looking tired and out-of-sorts. I pushed the remainder of the hooch across my desk and he scooped it up with a grateful look, finishing it off in a gulp. Laying the dead soldier on its side, he swept a stack of papers onto the floor and seated himself in their place.

"How did it go?"

"About how you'd expect. I gave him a crash course on the miracles of modern plumbing, then went ahead and explained the situation here -- the Cliffs Notes version of it, anyway."

"And?"

"I can't say it was especially well-received. There was a lot of swearing -- he's got quite a vocabulary, Cory, you'd be impressed. I had to get him to define a couple of the terms he used. But I think I managed to get the salient points across."

"You didn't see Scarlett on your way down, did you?"

"Yeah, I did; I sent her in with his clothes."

I winced. "Do you think that was wise?"

"Now that you mention it... "

Anxious to avert disaster, I grabbed the coffee pot and headed back upstairs; I knew there were still cups and saucers in the foyer, on the long trestle table we hadn't bothered to deconstruct earlier. (Earlier! Already it seemed a lifetime ago.) I detoured past the bathroom, at the back of the hall in the servants’ wing, but found it empty; with Evan close on my heels I headed for the main floor, filled with growing trepidation. Gods only knew what mischief they might get up to if left unattended; I certainly didn't trust them alone together.

As it turned out they were both in the ballroom, eyeing each other like a cobra and a mongoose -- though for the life of me I couldn't tell you which one was which. She was standing near the enormous tree, head down, idly fingering a strand of garland; he was pacing a rut into the floor in front of one of the twin fireplaces, periodically raking a hand through his thick, damp hair. I stopped in the doorway, blocking Evan with my arm, physically struck by the tension radiating between the two. A glance back at my partner showed me that he was feeling it, too.

Chemistry. Magnetism. Scientific words people use in an attempt to quantify the unquantifiable, the undercurrent that runs between these two people but not those two. They may talk, learnedly, of pheromones and receptors, of dominant traits and the biological bases for mate selection, but in the end that's all it really is: talk. The truth is, no one knows just how or why one person bonds to another, often in complete defiance of reason. Two people can be absolutely wrong for each other, and yet absolutely right; and the why remains a mystery. 

The chemistry here was obvious, even with the length of a room between them. Her magnetism I was already aware of; his, now that he was cleaned up and a bit more composed, had the force of a blow. "Sexy beast" did not even begin to cover it. Scarlett had done well in selecting clothing for him, perhaps a bit too well. The trousers were the correct length, though a bit tight across his muscular thighs. I prayed he wouldn't turn around, lest the rear view give me a heart attack. Likewise the shirt was made for a man less broad through the shoulders; he'd left the top two or three buttons undone, revealing a light dusting of black fuzz on tanned skin. His hair, freshly washed, looked soft and unruly, a spike of it continually falling over his forehead only to be flipped impatiently back; this look was much more appealing than the greasy brilliantined look so common in period photographs. He radiated the tense, barely-contained energy of a caged cat -- a large, predatory one. 

Something poked me, hard, in the small of the back. "You're drooling," a voice hissed in my ear. Startled, I turned and collided with Evan, ran smack into his chest; and caught as I was between Scylla in the ballroom and Charybdis an inch away from me, I was completely undone. There was a question in his eyes and he must have seen the answer in my own, for his mouth was claiming mine and it didn't even occur to me to pull away.

And then the fog lifted. Evan stepped back, grinning. "Look up."

I did. Mistletoe. In the doorway. I'd hung it there myself, nearly falling off the ladder in the process.

Dammit. 

He breezed past me into the ballroom, breaking the spell. I lingered momentarily outside, feeling the flush subside from my face if not from other places, willing my embarrassment away. Straightening, I entered the room with all the dignity I could muster.


	13. Chapter 13

And so we kicked off the winter of our mutual discontent with yet another all-night lack-of-slumber party.

The weird mood in the ballroom was shattered when Evan and I stumbled in, and it took very little convincing to get them to quit the place and follow us back to my digs. Mr. Butler was as surprised as his wife when he found out where I lived, but his reaction was rather different than hers.

"I love what you've done with the place, Miz Vinson," he drawled, brushing past me and striding to the middle of the room as though he owned the place - which, I reminded myself, in his mind he did. Foo slithered out from beneath an end table, gave the invader a disdainful once-over, and stalked away with her tail straight up. Scarlett gave a slight nervous giggle at this, which she quickly smothered, wide eyes darting fearfully toward Rhett. I gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Go get changed," I murmured; then, louder, "Please, Captain Butler, make yourself comfortable for a moment while we change. We're, um, hardly dressed to receive visitors."

Which was a gross understatement. All of us were still in ritual attire, right down to the crowns and other baubles that seemed so right by candlelight and so theatrically foolish now. Poor Scarlett, in white silk that flowed around her like liquid, was positively indecent by the standards of her time, and her discomfort was evident in every line of her posture. She shot me a grateful look as she scuttled off to my bedroom; I followed her, while Evan ambled down the hall to my office. As soon as I shut the door Scarlett sagged onto the bed, clutching her head between her two hands.

"Ohhh, I don't want to do this," she moaned, flopping backward. I tossed a pair of pants in her direction and started divesting myself of jewelry.

"Do what?"

"This. Face Rhett, deal with Rhett. I don't even know what to say to him anymore. Cory - remember, the last conversation I had with him, he -"

Oh, I remembered, all right; remembered her sobbing in my arms as she told me how he'd accused her of sleeping with another man, then suggested that she might have a miscarriage - right before she fell down the stairs and fulfilled his ugly prophecy. I thought if anything, he should be the one unable to face her.

But perhaps he was. That man pacing round the ballroom, massaging his temples as if trying to smooth away dark thoughts - that man hadn't looked like a vicious, scorned husband bent on revenge; he'd looked guilty as hell and desperate to flee. It had been obvious from the moment of his regaining consciousness in the tower that he was completely out of his element, flustered and confused (which was, of course, to be expected of someone who'd made such a long and unexpected trip). It seemed to me that, perhaps for the first time in their marriage, Scarlett was the one with the upper hand. She'd been around our time long enough to have a slight grasp on it; she knew Evan and me and what to expect of us; most importantly, she knew not only their past but their future. He had only memories, and the darkness in which he currently stood. She couldn't see her advantage yet, but I thought she'd realize it on her own pretty soon.

"Honey, I know, but - well, if he has any decency, he probably blames himself for what happened to you. I doubt he knows what to say to you, either."

She struggled out of the white robe and into her modern clothes, then sat down and began swiftly plaiting her long hair. "Be that as it may," she grumbled, "that doesn't make it any easier."

"I know it doesn't." I pulled on a soft green tank and a pair of yoga pants, putting my own hair into a ponytail. "Scarlett, you know why I did this, don't you?"

"I'm not sure that I do, but I know you didn't mean any harm by it."

That was good enough for me. I guided her out of the room with a reassuring arm around her slim shoulders. Evan was already back in the living room, settled comfortably into a corner of the loveseat, identifying objects as Rhett roamed around the room pointing them out. A trickle of deja vu ran down my spine as I recalled my first night here with Scarlett, doing precisely the same thing.

"Extraordinary," he breathed, inspecting my smartphone from all angles. He turned it this way and that, poking icons at random. I hustled over and pried it gently from his grasp before he could inadvertently place a call to Botswana. "Such devices are commonplace?"

"Yes, every jackass on the road has one glued to the side of his head, it seems like," was Evan's reply. "The pace of modern life is such that everyone feels the need to do fifteen things at once."

"A dangerous way to live," Rhett remarked. Evan nodded.

"Yes, but people today are so desensitized to everything that only the most exceptional of risks make any impact." He went on to comment upon the appeal of "extreme sports" such as those that left one clinging to rocky cliffsides, or leaping therefrom. Surprisingly, Rhett just laughed.

"That hasn't changed all that much - but in my day, one had to take one's risks where they lay." His eyes rested momentarily on Scarlett, then flicked away. "In blockade running, for example, which bears some family resemblance to piracy. But the higher the stakes, the higher the payoff, wouldn't you say?"

Evan, whom I've never seen do anything more death-defying than navigate Atlanta rush-hour traffic, nodded again sagely. "Spoken like a gambling man."

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," said Rhett easily, acknowledging Scarlett's and my arrival with a small bow and a raised eyebrow; I doubt he'd ever seen a woman in trousers in all his life, let alone clingy ones like we maybe shouldn't have chosen. He moved to seat himself on the couch; I joined Evan on the loveseat, and Scarlett, looking mutinous, plopped down at the farthest end of the couch away from her spouse and concentrated on making herself into as tight a ball as possible. It appeared that he was regaining his composure even as hers was fraying away. Damn the man, I thought, and spoke up:

"So, Captain Butler, I gather that Evan has briefed you on your – our - situation here. I hope it hasn't come as too great a shock to you."

"On the contrary; very few things are left in this world that have the power to shock me." (Just you wait, Mr. Conceited, I thought darkly.) He leaned back, looking at me with intense black eyes. "I have reached the conclusion that I am, at this moment, in actuality still in my chambers; suffering from delirium tremens, no doubt. When, or should I say if, I come to, it's unlikely I'll remember a moment of this. But you are certainly a most charming and appealing hostess, hallucination or no."

And with that, the man had the unspeakable, inestimable, brass-balled gall to LEER at me. What's worse, I flushed like a schoolgirl and felt the heat disperse all through me, a heady mix of embarrassment and anger. Beside me, Evan sat up a little straighter.

"You forget yourself," he said softly, and I saw the surprise on our guest's face before he schooled his expression back to blandness.

"My apologies," he replied, equally softly, and I felt Evan relax again.

Territory wars. Next they'd be peeing in the corners. It was like something off the "Animal Planet" channel.

"ANYway," I said, trying desperately to regain control of the situation, "I don't know how much Evan has told you -"

"I know that we are, allegedly, in the 21st century, and that my house here is now a museum - a monument, more likely, to my colossal stupidity and extravagance. I know that you, Miss Vinson, are the very capable curator of said museum, and that Mr. Winter here is the equally capable site manager. And I know that you have been harboring my wife as your esteemed houseguest for the past two months, which I have been given to understand has done her a world of good - for which I am in your debt. And beyond that, I know very little, save that you have a remarkable array of useless gadgetry and even worse fashion sense than Scarlett."

"There are - other things that you need to know," I informed him, savoring the taste of the words. "Difficult things, I'm afraid. Scarlett, honey, perhaps you should go on to bed. There's no reason you should have to relive these things all over again."

But to my surprise, she refused. Uncoiling herself, she sat up straight and looked at me steadily. "No, Cory. It's my place to tell him everything that will happen, since those things are as much my fault as they are his." Oh, she had courage, my Scarlett. I had an inkling of what she was feeling, but it wasn't going to stop her. How I admired her in that moment!

She turned that same level gaze on her husband - the eyes of the cobra, holding the mongoose in thrall before it strikes - and said his name, quietly, one simple syllable that made the entire room go still. And then she began.

"You're already aware of my accident," she said steadily, "and you know that I lost the baby - your baby, Rhett, because it was yours, whether you want to believe me or not. You also must know by now that I was very sick afterwards, and I will become sicker than you can know yet. It will take me months to get better, according to Cory's research, because I will suffer from fevers, and delirium, and hemorrhage, and then melancholia. They call that 'depression' now, don't they, Cory?"

Without waiting for my reply, she rushed on: "Over the course of the next two years, there will be more losses. Melly will die, along with her baby. Our daughter will die, not five hundred yards from where we sit right now, falling from her horse just like my Pa, and then, when things cannot possibly get any blacker, you will leave me.

"Are you hearing this, Rhett? Are you? Or do you still not believe this is real?"

"This is a nightmare," he said, firmly, and I could tell from the tone of his voice that belief was still a long way away for him. "I have them constantly now, and with similar results. Why should I think this one different?"

"Because it is! Do you have nightmares about them -" she flung her arm wide, indicating Evan and me. "- Or about things like televisions and cars and smartphones?"

"No, Scarlett, I do not. I have nightmares about you cuckolding me with your precious Ashley Wilkes. I have nightmares about you leaving me, and taking Bonnie with you. I have nightmares in which you remind me, in a thousand different ways, just how much you despise me and just how I can never be anything but a hindrance to your happiness. I have nightmares in which you inform me, again and again, that you will never love me. And of course, I have nightmares in which you die, and it's my fault - always my fault - and I am unable to save you. I cannot even save myself. So you see, my dear, in comparison, this particular nightmare is mild indeed. Pray continue, Mrs. Butler. What other horrors await?"

The atmosphere in my living room was so heavily charged it fairly crackled with it - the same bleak miasma of anger and emptiness and endless aching sorrow that so often enveloped the Mansion, the same unlivable energy that compelled me to try and change it in the first place. It was going to take the psychic equivalent of a full-blown fumigation to make my poor apartment bearable again, after all this was said and done.

If it ever was.

"Me, leaving you?" She spat, incredulous. Rising, she began to pace the floor much as he had done earlier. "It's always you who leaves, Rhett! Every time things get too much for you, you're off again, and you've always been that way as long as I've known you. You'd come and go as it damned well pleased you during the war, and I never knew when or if I'd see you again. You abandoned me in the middle of a retreating army to go fight a losing battle you never believed in in the first place. You proposed to me and then you disappeared for months before just showing up on the doorstep one day, acting like you'd just seen me the day before. You've been gone more than you've been here since the day we married. Maybe if you hadn't run out on me in the middle of the night three months ago - maybe if you could ever face me instead of running away, things would be different now!"

She stopped, breathing hard. I could tell she'd forgotten there was anyone else in the room - or perhaps she was simply beyond caring. By now her target was on his feet too, and they were circling one another again. Feeling like I should be anywhere but sitting there watching their wretched drama play out, I scrambled over the arm of the loveseat and beat a retreat for the kitchen. Evan followed my example. And although we didn't want to, we couldn't help hearing what was going on, and peering over the breakfast bar to make sure there wasn't any bloodshed impending.

Well, I'd wanted them to talk...

"FACE you?" He roared, causing her to stumble and step back. "Damn you, Scarlett, why would I want to face you when all I can see reflected in those green eyes of yours is a catalogue of my failures? Oh, you speak the truth: I do run, have always run, and I am a coward, of the worst sort. Again and again I've left you, desperate to break your hold over me, only to feel the noose tightening the farther afield I roam. Marrying you was the greatest mistake of my life. You're a disease to me, Scarlett Butler, a poison in my blood, and I'm not sure even death will cure me. Every time I feel myself close to breaking again I leave you - I must leave you - because if I were to break before you only to face your absolute indifference to me I could not bear it."

And I'd thought such melodrama was confined to the pages of books. Who knew people actually talked that way?

I felt Evan's presence behind me - calm, rational, non-melodramatic Evan - and was swept with a wave of pure, profound gratitude. Whatever would be between us, I felt certain it would never come to anything approaching this. His arm went round my waist, tucking me firmly against his side, and I welcomed the contact. We were effectively trapped until the train wreck in the living room had played itself out.

"My indifference! Oh, that's rich! You've shown me nothing but indifference - except, of course, for when you're being actively cruel to me! Damn you, Rhett, you knew how I felt when you married me - so what did you expect? Did you marry me thinking you'd change me?"

"Frankly, YES, I did! In my incredible, unfathomable arrogance and idiocy, I believed that you'd grow up. I believed that you'd come to care for me, in time - but it was Ashley, always Ashley with you."

"Leave Ashley out of this. I don't give a damn about Ashley Wilkes! He's got nothing to do with this – this MESS that we're in! And that's -"

"What did you say?" Now he had grasped her by the shoulders and was shaking her slightly. She wrenched free of him and stood her ground, flipping back a lock of hair that had come free from its braid.

"I said I don't give a damn about Ashley, so stop using him as an excuse! God, he's worse than you are - he knew as well as I did that nothing had happened between us, yet he wouldn't lift a finger in either his own defense OR mine! If he hadn't been such a cowardly fool none of THIS would've happened - we wouldn't have fought and you wouldn't have left - at least, not over that - I wouldn't have fallen and... Oh, God! Don't you see? I don't - I don't feel about him the way I used to. I don't know what I feel about anything anymore."

"Me included," he stated flatly. She nodded.

"You most of all." I wondered if he could hear her lie as clearly as I could. "All I know is I want this to stop. I'm so tired. I can't do this anymore. I never knew I could feel so miserable. Sometimes I wish I had died, there in our time, when I fell. It'd be easier, and it'd make your dreams come true."

"Oh, Scarlett," he whispered, his voice ragged, and I saw him reach out to her. She jerked away the moment his hands brushed hers, and now I could see the tears beginning to track down her cheeks.

"No. Don't touch me, I can't bear it if you touch me. Rhett, I -" She stopped, staring at him with those big, unhappy eyes; it seemed for a moment that she would collapse against him, but she gave a strangled sob, covered her face with both hands and fled from the room. Seconds later I heard my bedroom door slam down the hall.

Rhett Butler - cool, unflappable, indifferent Rhett Butler - sank back down on the sofa and covered his own face just as his wife had, and only the shaking of his shoulders gave away the depth of his emotions.

Exhausted on all our behalf, I turned and rested my cheek against Evan's chest, sinking into the solace of his arms around me. I felt his lips brush the top of my head.

"Oh, bloody hell," he muttered. And that didn't even begin to cover it.


	14. Chapter 14

Breakfast the next morning was a bit awkward.

The entire night was awkward, miserably so. I ended up in a sleeping bag on the floor in the back room, since Scarlett had claimed my bed and I couldn't bring myself to disturb her. Captain Butler remained on the sofa, while poor Evan was stuck cramping himself onto the loveseat. As a result, there were four sleep-deprived, sore, embarrassed people slumped round my kitchen table the following day, blinking in the weak early light.

The first course for everyone was Excedrin, washed down with strong black coffee. Rhett was so catastrophically hung over that he didn't even look at what I handed him, just tossed it down and grunted something that might have been a thank you. Scarlett swallowed hers with a grimace, Evan with a groan. Once everyone was dosed I set about attempting to feed the lot of us. Fortunately, I'd shopped recently, and laid in a store of useful things like eggs and bacon and oatmeal. With Evan's help I soon had steaming, enticing plates in front of each sufferer. 

Rhett lifted his fork, paused, then looked up at me. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, but entirely lucid. "I owe you an apology -- all of you -- for my conduct of last night. It was unconscionable of me to subject you to such an outburst."

"Under the circumstances, I hardly think you could have been expected to behave otherwise," I said mildly, pouring him more coffee. "Are you beginning to feel better now?"

"To my everlasting regret, it appears as though I shall live to fight another day." He applied butter and jam to a piece of toast before finally addressing Scarlett, who was eating in sullen silence across the table from him. "That apology is to you as well, Mrs. Butler, perhaps to you most of all."

"It doesn't matter," she mumbled, looking at her plate. "Nothing surprises me anymore."

"No, I suppose that it wouldn't, considering where you've been lately and how you've been spending your time."

She looked up at that. "Does this mean you believe me now?"

"I haven't much choice, have I? After all, I am still here, in a place as real and solid as any I've ever encountered. And I can assure you that the landscapes in my dreams, and other phantasms, lack this level of authenticity." There was a hint of hopeful humor in his voice, and I could see the corners of her mouth twitch in unwilling response, though she still refused to meet his gaze. "If you would care, at some point hence, to explain to me what you know of how you came to be here -- and how I came to be here! -- I would be very interested to hear your story. Something tells me it will prove most instructive and, er, entertaining."

"Entertaining," said Evan under his breath, shaking his head.

"Yes, I could do that," Scarlett replied, voice neutral. "Perhaps later today, after we've all had some time to recover -- it was such a late night, and I'm sure you're very tired."

"I am, yes. A bit more sleep would put me to rights, I think."

"Yes, well, then maybe you should come up to the house after breakfast. You could have a nap. I usually sleep there, you see, so you could have a nap in my room, and -- well, then later, I could show you around the house, and tell you -- some things." And now she looked up. "That is, if you want me to. Or Cory could do it; she knows more about this house than I do, now --"

"Scarlett, it would please me immensely if you would be my guide," he said warmly, silencing her nervous stammering. Color suffused her cheeks; and when her eyes found his and held, the moment was so shockingly intimate that I almost fled the table. After a moment, Scarlett did flee -- she pushed her chair back and rose unsteadily, turning to me in what looked like a mild panic.

"Cory, I'm going up to the house now. I'll, um, get things ready, and Rhett can come up later. Thank you for breakfast." She scooped my keys off the breakfast bar and departed with unseemly haste. Rhett watched her go, sighed and turned back to his breakfast.

"So how much of it is true?" he asked us without preamble. 

"All of it," was Evan's blunt response. 

"Ah." Then: "Is there a way out?"

"You mean back? We don't know."

He nodded, returning his attention to his nearly empty plate. "Can I stop any of it, do you think?"

"We don't know that either, Captain Butler."

"Well. All mad together. Miss Vinson, Mr. Winter, it would appear we'll be in close proximity for the foreseeable future. I suppose that means we should dispense with the formalities. Do, please, call me 'Rhett.'" White teeth showed as the finely-cut lips stretched in a sudden, feral grin. 'Close proximity,' hell. I didn't think my nerves could stand it much closer.

By the time the three of us walked up to the big house some twenty minutes later, Scarlett had made herself scarce, but her suite bore mute testimony to her recent attentions. The curtains were drawn and a lamp lit by the bedside; a fresh pitcher of water and a glass were in place (resting, I was grateful to note, upon a makeshift coaster) on the same small table. The bedcovers were turned back invitingly, the pillows freshly fluffed. Any personal items of hers had been obligingly tidied away. The only thing I noticed out of place was a small brown rectangle on the dressing table which, when I moved to inspect it closer, proved to be a daguerreotype case which should have been down in the office where I'd left it, awaiting repair to its hinge. Evan started to reach for it, but was preempted by Rhett.

"Some things never change," he remarked, reaching for the case. "May I?"

I tried to remember what image the case contained, but couldn't. We had so many dags in our collection. There were several quarter-plate images with damaged cases that I recalled offhand: one of the three children together; another of Mr. Wilkes, its hinge broken and a large crack at one corner; one of Mr. and Mrs. Butler, probably taken on their honeymoon. I handed it over with a warning to be careful of the damage; and he was surprisingly gentle when he flipped the case open and stared at the image inside.

"That isn't supposed to be in here," Evan said curatorially, but did not move to take it away from Rhett who stared at it, transfixed. I leaned over to see it, praying that it wasn't the one of Mr. Wilkes.

It wasn't. It was the image of Scarlett and Rhett together, and seeing it again I was struck by how unusual, and how lovely, it was. Breaking with the photographic convention of the day, it was Scarlett who was seated, rather than Rhett; she sat slightly sideways on a high-backed chair not unlike the ones in the mansion's dining room, and her lengthy skirts were arranged to pool artistically on the floor around her. Rhett, rather than standing stiffly posed by her side, instead leaned against the chair's back in a curiously relaxed manner, one hand resting possessively on her shoulder. They were looking, not at the camera, but at each other; and the photographer, displaying a sensitivity rare for the time, captured their moment instead of forcing them into a more conventional pose. The result was both sweet and subtly sensual. I wondered when she'd nicked it out of my desk drawer.

"That was taken on our honeymoon," said Rhett, confirming my long-held suspicion. "In New Orleans."

"You both look so happy," I said, quietly. He nodded.

"We were. At least, I thought -- well, I was, at any rate, at least at the time this was taken. But I must say this is a somewhat odd choice of photos to display in this particular chamber."

"It isn't. I mean, it isn't being displayed in here, or anywhere; the case is damaged, and I had it in storage."

"I see." Very carefully, Rhett placed the little case on the bedside table, opened just enough that it would stand on its own and still leave the image visible. "Would you be so kind as to inform Scarlett that I would appreciate if she would awaken me three hours hence?"

"Of course."

"Then I thank you again for your kindness." He bowed slightly, and Evan and I took that as our license to depart. I caught myself backing toward the door like a serving wench and forced myself to turn around and walk out properly. Evan closed the door behind us and fell into step with me.

I looked over at him. His dark circles had dark circles and he looked as if he hadn't slept properly in weeks. "You look like hell," I said bluntly. He grinned.

"Thanks. You, too."

"I mean it. Why don't you go home for a while? We can finish cleaning up from the open house tomorrow."

"You think I'd leave you to run interference between those two by yourself? I was hoping to persuade you to let me crash on your couch again, though. A nap would be nice."

"That could be arranged. I was thinking of a nap, myself."

"Sounds like a plan."

We located Scarlett in the basement office and gave her her husband's request. When I told her we were going back to the carriage house for a nap, she gave us the strangest look, at which point I realized my statement ("We're going back to my place to bed") sounded a trifle ambiguous. I stumbled over an explanation while Evan snickered and Scarlett blushed. She, too, was pale and tired, but denied a need for sleep when pressed. 

"I'll be fine," she asserted, belying the statement seconds later with a huge yawn. "Do you want me to come and wake you, too?"

"No, I can set my alarm clock. We can all have a late lunch together, if you like."

It was approaching noon already. Back at my place we were greeted by the anguished howls and accusing blue eyes of poor neglected Foo, whom I'd forgotten to feed earlier. Few animals on this earth are better equipped to express their outrage than Siamese cats. After she'd been presented with both dry and canned food, plus profuse apologies and loving pats, she condescended to forgive me. I shuffled from kitchen to living room to find Evan taking up the sofa space so recently occupied by Rhett. 

"The volunteers would gossip themselves sick if they saw this," he informed me smugly. I shrugged.

"You sleeping in my apartment is the least of things they could be gossiping about. Not a one of them so much as looked twice at either of our houseguests. Damn, you'd think they'd recognize the people whose history they're supposed to be preserving!"

"Lucky for us we don't have very observant staff. Did anyone say they were coming by today to help with cleanup?"

"No, and I really don't expect anybody. It's the Sunday before Christmas; people have stuff to do."

"God, I forgot about that." Evan doesn't pay much attention to the things that normal people do. "Are you going home this week?"

I perched on the arm of the sofa. "I'm having dinner with my family on Tuesday night, but that's it. What about you?"

"My parents are staying in Boca for the holidays, so I have no plans."

"Want to come for dinner? My folks won't mind; they like you."

"Yeah, I'd like that. Thanks."

I got up and started down the hall, but Evan called me back. "What?"

"Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?"

"It's morning."

"Kiss me good morning, then."

I did as requested, brushing my lips lightly across his and resolutely ignoring my profound desire to pay him back double for the previous night's mistletoe. "Good morning, Evan."

He snuggled back into the sofa cushions and tucked Rhett's discarded blanket around him. "Good morning, Cory." 

The afternoon was well in progress by the time I awakened, an abrupt transition initiated by a heavy weight upon my chest, a loud rumbling noise, and a series of rhythmic thumps of something warm and soft against my chin. When I pried my eyelids open, I found myself staring into round blue eyes; the owner thereof gave a satisfied little chirp, headbutted me once more, then leapt down to streak out of the room. A few moments later, a profane shout from the living room informed me that the process had been repeated successfully on Evan. He was sitting upright, glaring at Foo, when I walked in.

"Does she do that often?"

"Only when her schedule's been disturbed. You look even worse than you did before you slept, if that's possible. Want some more Excedrin?"

"I do. Gods, don't come any closer -- I think my teeth have sprouted fur or something. I must have the most hellacious death breath on earth."

"How romantic." I delivered the drugs and a drink to wash them down, staying at arm's length. I wasn't feeling exactly springtime fresh myself. "So I suppose we'll need to take our new arrival shopping today. You'll come, won't you?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. I'm gonna go on up to the house and have another shower. Maybe that'll make me feel human again."

"I'll meet you there in a few. We can round up the Butlers together."

Once washed and dressed, I went in search of the rest of my posse and found them all milling about in the basement office. Luckily for us, men's fashions haven't changed all that dramatically over the past century or so -- and even luckier for us, in these modern times one can wear just about any ludicrous thing and not raise an eyebrow in the big city. Rhett was still in 19th century trousers and shirt, a look popular among goth boys and vampyres; his swarthiness exempted him from passage as either of those, but he was so damned good-looking that it didn't matter much what he was wearing. This man would stand out in any crowd. 

He was currently circling his wife like a vulture; she was in a pose with "defiant" written all over it, and they were tossing invective back and forth as if they'd done it every day for all their lives. Which they most likely had. The subject appeared to be Scarlett's choice of clothing. Evan was sitting on the edge of my desk again, watching them like a spectator at a tennis match, looking highly entertained. I joined him unmolested; the Butlers seemed oblivious to their surroundings.

"People dress like this every day," Scarlett stated, flinging her arms out to her sides to provide an unobstructed view. Compared to what could be seen on most TV shows, music videos, city streets and shopping malls, her ensemble was tame to the point of conservatism: soft black slacks, an emerald sweater, black boots. Her long hair, fastened at her nape with a silver barrette, streamed down her back. I was similarly garbed, which I knew Scarlett would point out as soon as she noticed me. "There is nothing indecent about what I'm wearing!"

"Then I must conclude that the standards of decency have been greatly lowered in the intervening century since last I saw you. In our day you wore undergarments more voluminous than what you're attempting to convince me is appropriate streetwear for a woman of character. Not a line of your form is left to the imagination."

"You'll see. Once we go out, you'll see what I say is true. Young women today go about in public in skirts up past their knees, and shirts that barely cover them from here to here --" She indicated with her hands the topmost and bottom-most edges of her bosom, causing Rhett's eyebrow to rise nearly even with his hairline. "I'm not at all indecent, Rhett Butler, and furthermore I'll have on a coat, so you needn't get on your high horse with me." Turning, she spied me at last and pointed a triumphant finger in my direction. "There! You see? Cory's dressed just like me!"

So was Evan, for that matter; all three of us were in nearly identical garb of pants/shirt/boots. I shrugged, palms up, denying culpability; outnumbered, Rhett sighed theatrically and rolled his eyes heavenward.

"All right, another lesson learned of modern living. I presume the two of you have come to introduce me to what awaits beyond my doorstep?"

"We have. We're going to go out and get something to eat, then take you shopping for some, er, suitable attire. Can't have you running around looking like the cover of a trashy romance novel. I don't suppose you're prone to motion sickness?"

"I daresay I'd not have lasted long running the blockades if I were."

"Good. The first thing to which you will be introduced today is the internal combustion engine." Turning to Evan, I added, "We're taking your car."

Rhett was as fascinated by Evan's car as Scarlett had been with mine. He walked round the black Mazda two or three times, inspecting it from various angles, peering through the windows, looking up under the wheel wells. Evan obligingly opened the hood and commenced to lecture on the superiority of Mazda’s turbocharged 4 cylinder engine. When we were all thoroughly frozen, we piled into the miraculous conveyance, me taking shotgun and the Butlers wedged into the back; Evan turned the key and the car -- and its sound system -- roared into life. Over a lugubrious beat and the sinuous swirl of guitars, a seductive voice insisted that it could feel the thunder breaking in my heart, and see through the scars inside me. Evan, for some reason, looked slightly embarrassed.

"Our visitors probably aren’t ready for Ghost," he muttered, popping the disc out of the player and fumbling it. I caught it deftly, presented it to him shiny-side up.

"Too bad," I murmured, “I love that song.” I did not blush. I hope.

"Could we PLEASE get going?" Scarlett demanded, shifting around in the cramped back seat. Looking anywhere but at me, Evan put the car in gear and exited the parking lot a bit too fast, kicking up a fan of gravel in his wake. We were hardly a block down Peachtree before I realized I was humming the same song.


End file.
